


Les Étrangers

by Reavv, TheOneKrafter



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crack Treated Seriously, Discord-Insert, Gen, Mage (Dragon Age) Rights, Modern Boy in Thedas, Modern Character in Thedas, Modern Girl in Thedas, Multiple Self-Inserts, Overthrowing the Chantry for Fun and Profits, Self-Insert, The Ethical Question of Rewriting Disney Shows for Profit and Fun, Theatre, because we need a tag for a discord server being sent to thedas, world building
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-11-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:27:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 30,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27095794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reavv/pseuds/Reavv, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheOneKrafter/pseuds/TheOneKrafter
Summary: "Come one, come all! Les Étrangers are here to bring you the story of a life time, full of adventure, love, and attempted murder. Watch the innovative new Theatre sweeping Orlais, enchanting and scandalising in equal measure!”On the back of the paper is scribbled in smaller script, plainly Orlesian.“Nous Autres offered free food and drink.”(eight people wake up in the hinterlands in 9:41 dragon, two months before the temple of sacred ashes goes up in flames. what were they meant to do? sit and twiddle their thumbs?)
Comments: 115
Kudos: 396
Collections: Best of Fanfiction





	1. “Hellfire, Dark Fire!”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "A cruel and lascivious Chantry Mother, her easily charmed Templar Captain, an orphaned and mistreated mage in a bell tower, and the dancing Dalish elf that changes their lives. Come, here the bells ring! The beautiful bells of Notre-Dame!"

They pass through the town on their way back from Val Royeaux, and the hectic days spent there. Cadoc had noticed the festival setup when they originally passed by, of course, but he’d still not expected the riot of colours and people and food that they’re confronted with when the gates of the town are in sight again. 

“Been a while since I’ve seen a party like this,” Varric muses at his side, watching as a small child goes running past them, laughing with hands full of sugar. 

“There has not been much to celebrate, these past months,” Cassandra offers, looking charmed despite herself at the festivities. 

“We have time to stop, right?” Cadoc grunts, checking in with the rest of the group as they idle near the crowds. “I don’t know about you, but I’m fucking tired of travel rations.” 

And tired of the passive aggressive sniping between the three others. Maybe if they all chill out and spend an evening bobbing for apples or whatever, the rest of the journey will maybe pass a little more enjoyably. 

“It will take time to organise our next move, either way,” Solas says, causing Cadoc to wince. The idea of being in charge of deciding which faction to go with leaves a sour taste in his mouth. What does a Dwarf know about magic or templars? 

“Come on! They’re playing it again tonight!” 

Cadoc turns to the side just so, watching an excited teenage elf drag his friend along. 

“My mama will tan my hide if she knows we’re watching the _Les_ _Étrangers_ ,” The friend hisses, but allows herself to be pulled along. “Don’t they kill a _Mother_ in their show?” 

“The main love interest is a _Dalish_ , Angela, and I hear they’re offering free food to _Nous Autres_ ,” The boy rebuffs, waving her off. “Come _on_ , they’re in the square and they start two bells after sundown! We’re at one!”

Ceecee’s eyes follow them as they hurry off, bickering all the way, and a grin comes to his lips. 

“I think I just found how we’re spending the evening,” He says, starting after them, and Varric and Cassandra have to cease their quiet argument about pastry of all things to hurry after him. They end up having to push through part of the crowd, as the closer they get to the town square the more exuberant the festival goers become.

“We are seeing these _Étrangers_ , then, Herald?” Solas asks, one hand clasping his pack. 

Ceecee quickly shushes him, his marked hand covered by a glove and coming up to his lips to make the universal “hush” sign. 

“We’re incognito, Solas!” Ceecee says, making a face. “And after Val Royeaux I doubt my “ _title_ ” will earn us any favor with the locals.”

Ameteurs, honestly! Grandma Cadash would’ve never stood for it. 

Ceecee catches himself rubbing the leather of his glove above the mark and huffs. 

“Of course, my apologies,” Solas says, bowing his head and sounding sincere enough that Ceecee knows it isn’t genuine at all. Somedays Cadoc has to ask himself how he found himself surrounded by so many smooth masked folk. Really makes one nostalgic.

The smell of street food and sound of vendors shouting their wares and games overtake any sour feelings he has, though. A crowd surrounds them, and finally, blessedly _finally,_ Cadoc Cadash becomes nothing but a face in it. He never thought he, a dwarf, would take his natural ability to disappear for granted until he became a prophet to a Human faith. 

Well, not all human faith. Ceecee may not believe, but he knows a good few surface dwarves who do, and more elves. 

Point is, by the _Stone_ he is glad no one is looking at him. He’s a rogue hiding as a warrior, attention makes him break into hives. 

They reach the town square and are greeted with a small stage being set up by masked people, and a significant audience waiting for the show to begin. Most of whom, Cadoc can't help noticing, are either non-human or teenagers.

To the side, another masked person runs a small, easily broken down concession stand, food being cooked behind them as they exchange coin with a customer. 

Varric whistles low, looking impressed. 

“Haven’t seen some open theatre in Orlais in a while. Usually too much “ _Repent or don’t go to the Golden City_ ” talk for me,” He muses. 

Cassandra, surprisingly, grunts in agreement. 

“Heavy handed. Leliana always called it necessary to spread the Chant, but I have never been one for mummery.”

If what those teens were saying was right, they’ll be in for a ride different from the usual. Cadoc can't help but wonder if it will be any bit as dramatic as he remembers Orlesian theater can get.

Ceecee pokes Solas’s side, and when he gives him an almost unimpressed look he grins conspiratorially. 

“Come on, they said _Nous Autres_ eat free,” Ceecee whispers, slipping away from a now once again bickering Varric and Cassandra. Though, from the wink Varric sends Ceecee he assumes he is at least half doing it to distract the Seeker. 

“ _Nous Autres_?” Solas asks idly. 

“Us others,” Ceecee explains easily. “Nonhumans without saying nonhumans. Keeps the giants from getting feisty.”

He doesn’t ask why Solas doesn’t know something that basic. He’s an apostate, and clearly hasn’t spent much time in civilization if his fashion sense is to be believed. 

Solas nods, looking like he’s committing it to memory, and they get in line for the food stand. 

Shish Kabobs cook on a grill, turned skillfully by a man with a bear mask every few minutes or so. They smell like garlicky goodness from here and Ceecee is slapped by how hungry he is. 

How long was it since they stopped to eat lunch? ...did that hard tack even _count_ as lunch?

“Five minutes to curtain!” One of the performers on stage shouts, and some of the audience cheer and hoot. 

Solas stands in comfortable silence beside Ceecee, looking completely at ease as he takes in his surroundings. For a mage _and_ an elf he’s remarkably un-skittish. Must be his time in the wilderness. 

“Have you ever seen a show before?” Ceecee asks the man, stifling his habit to start fiddling with one of his belt knives. Warriors with big hammers don’t play with _knives._

“Once or twice,” Solas murmurs, something melodic about his voice appearing to indicate he’s going to start talking real smartlike. “But the fade has many great plays and performances echoing from the past. Done a thousand times forever more. I am familiar with the concept.”

Ceecee wonders if Solas would be half as smart if he weren’t such a social recluse, and pats his shoulders. Or, well, pats as far up his arm as he can.

“I hope the real ones are just as fun as the Fade. I’m sure you didn’t have such good food in your dreams!” Ceecee says, just as they come to the front of the line. 

The bear mask man hums in greeting. 

“Meat or no meat?” He asks, wooden tongs in hand. 

“Four with meat,” Ceecee says, turning to Solas. “Unless you didn’t want it?”

He heard some Dalish don’t eat meat. Would be rude to assume Solas might or might not follow it too. 

Not that all elves who live out in the woods are the same. Ceecee’s never met a Dalish with such a shiny head!

Alright that was a bit mean but it’s not his fault Solas makes odd stylistic choices. Not to mention, he's pretty sure Solas would be more insulted about being called Dalish than the comment about his baldness.

“Meat is fine, Cadash,” Solas says, smiling placidly. 

...why does Ceecee not trust that?

Agh, fuck it, if the man says he wants meat he gets meat. 

“Four meat,” Cadoc repeats, and the man clicks the tongs together twice, turning to grab a half piece of bread flat enough to serve as a plate and plopping a fresh off-the-grill kabob onto it. 

One by one they finally have four bread faux plate and kabob ensembles in hand, and when Ceecee makes a reach for his coin purse, just to make sure, he’s waved off. Bear Mask gives him a thumbs up with his free hand and clicks the tongs together again three times. 

“Thank you,” Solas says in parting, and the two of them start walking over to presumably where Varric and Cassandra are sitting. Ceecee wouldn’t know, all he sees is asses, but Solas is tall enough that he trusts him. 

“A minute till!” Is shouted on stage. 

People quiet down at that. 

They settle into seats by Varric and Cassandra, towards the back, and Ceecee wonders how a show explains killing off a chantry mother at the end. 

The lights in the square are blown out, and the lights on the stage come out. 

—

The first sign that the play will be different than others he’s caught glimpses of is the music that accompanies the storyteller on stage. Drums echo through the courtyard, drawing the attention of those few not yet watching, as in the corner of the wings masked singers burst out into droning song. 

The music fades away just as a fire is lit right behind the actor currently on stage, now sitting behind some sort of facade of brightly painted wood and fabric. 

Solas feels his eyebrows rise as the Dracolisk mask is thrown into relief. The mask is painted wood, blue and reds mixing into a dizzying array of swirls and patterns. It’s certainly not a mask he would associate with Orlais. 

“Do you hear that?” the storyteller asks, just as another fire is lit off to the side, highlighting a painted murrel of a tower, accompanied by a riot of ringing. “Do you hear the tower bells ring?”

There’s a few murmurs from the crowd, and the storyteller leans forward in his booth, bringing up two puppet covered hands who each cry out agreement. 

“They do not ring on their own,” he says, accent obviously foreign to Orlais. “The creature of the tower rings them at the same time, every day.” 

“What creature?” one of the hands asks. 

Solas glances over at the rest of the party as the conversation devolves. Although the artistry of the stage and music interests him—especially in the ways it differs from what he knows to be accepted practices—the primitive narration is likely for the benefit of the less than educated audience. 

Tethras and the Herald look enthralled, and the Seeker not far behind. 

The creature is described—

“Hooded, forever hunched over the long gnarled staff—” 

And it’s sad origins laid bare across the stage floor. Two other actors step out of the side, and where the audience was not particularly loud previously, it now falls silent completely. The first is a threadbare woman in a dragonfly mask, the wings decorated with broken glass.

It is the second that causes the uneasy stirring from the crowd, however. Tall, striding across the stage with purpose, the raven mask glinting menacingly in the light, this character cannot be mistaken for anything less than a Chantry Mother. The robes are not quite right—obviously handmade for the play itself—but it does not even attempt to be subtle in it’s imitation. 

In the more ragged character’s hand is a worn, wooden imitation of a stave, very carefully not having a real foci so as to avoid the ire of any stray Templar. But this woman stumbles back from the long strides of the Chantry Mother. And in her arm, a bundle. 

"How dare you dirty the light of the maker with your presence! An apostate, in belle Notre-Dame! You will face justice or you will _burn_ ,” the Chantry Mother spits, what can be seen under the mask twisting in disgust. 

The woman recoils in fear, sheltering the bundle in her arms towards the shocked crowd, revealing it just enough to highlight the wooden doll painted like a child. Solas can just see from the corner of his eyes the Seeker’s aborted jerk upwards. 

He has to force his own brows to relax. It is a brave theater troupe to feature mages in their stories, at all. To feature the cruelty they have faced? Unheard of. 

Swiftly, the Mother smacks away the woman’s stave, and all that can be heard in the silent town square is the _clack clack_ of it hitting the stage. 

“ _Please Ser—!_ ” The woman begins to plead, but she is pushed down against the stage, the bundle tugged from her arms harshly. 

The drums echo out once more, a single loud cry disguised as music, even as the fire seems to flicker higher. It is not magic—cannot be magic, to do so would be reckless at best—but it casts a spell on the audience anyways. 

The Mother, called Frollo by the Narrator, gasps at the sight of the baby. Not in remorse at the realization that it is a child, no, instead—

“ _A demon!_ Something so misshapen could be nothing _less,_ ” Frollo hisses, head looking around quickly, and what had once been an innocent stagepiece, a well in the back center of the stage, becomes insidious. 

Solas, quietly, is surprised the Seeker has not jumped out of her seat at this point. 

Frollo walks quickly, robes swishing behind her. 

And, now the drums return, quietly but faster and faster, voices chanting above it to finally hit their climax as Frollo holds the baby over the edge of the well. There is an uncomfortable shifting from the crowd. 

“Mother Frollo! What do you think you are doing?” a voice calls from—oddly enough—among the throngs of watchers, as a turtle masked actor pushes through the crowd to stand just before the stage. 

Their outfit is similar in design to the Chantry Mother’s, but more subdued. 

Mother Frollo snaps around, holding the babe like something spoiled and rotten by the tips of her fingers. 

“Mother Deacon—I am sending this demon back to the fade, where it belongs,” she says, not looking even a small amount guilty to be caught midst murder of a child. Solas glances quietly to the side, where you can see the white knuckle fist the Seeker has made against her chair, and the enthusiastic note taking of Tethras at her side. Even Cadash is leaning forward, meat skewer half forgotten in his hands. 

“Do you not see the blood you have already spilt, on the steps of our belle Notre-Dame?” Mother Deacon asks, sweeping the still crumpled form of the mage into her arms, backlit by the fires behind the stage to burnish the both of them in reds and golds. 

“She was an apostate,” Mother Frollo refutes, “running from the rightful place in the Circle. I did my duty.” 

“And now you would add the blood of a babe? Do you hold no love in your heart for all the Maker’s children?” Mother Deacon continues, bowing over the body in her arms as if in pain. 

The music builds once more, softly at first, the rolling beat of the drums gaining speed as the scene unfolds. 

“I am innocent,” Mother Frollo sneers, moving away from the well at last. 

“You may lie to yourself and all the nobles in the halls,” Mother Deacon cries. “But you shall never hide yourself from the eyes of the Maker.” 

Something in Frollo’s stance changes then, something more fearful. 

“And suddenly, for the first time in her entire life,” The Narrator murmurs to the crowd, voice projecting. “Mother Frollo feared for her immortal spirit.”

The fires _rise_ ominously, and Frollo turns halfway, the flames washing her form in golden light. 

“What should I do?” Frollo says, head snapping to Mother Deacon, who has taken the _genuine_ mother into her arms and stood. 

“Raise that child,” Mother Deacon says. “Adopt and treat it as your own, for you have taken its true mother away.”

“Fine,” The Mother says, looking down at the bundle in her arms contemplatively, now a means to an end. “I will raise it here, then.”

“Here?” Mother Deacon asks, shock plain in her voice. “In the circle?”

“Where better?” Frollo says. “Perhaps the bell tower.”

“And so the child is brought into the bell tower,” the Narrator explains, as the actors for both mothers flit off to the side, and Mother Frollo strides off, holding the fake child in an unsettlingly harsh grip. 

“And hidden from view of the townsfolk, the child grew up in the shadow of the tower that became his mother’s grave—ringing the bells day in, and day out. For although the Mother had enough fear in her heart to spare the child, it was not enough to gentle her attitude towards her unwanted progeny.” 

The fires dim, soften. The music shifts from the harsh beats of the drum and the unsettling vocals of the chore into quieter sounds of string instruments and a pan flute. 

“And the child grew up hungry for the stories he would hear carried on the wind, of love and acceptance and family. Even as his hands blistered and scarred from pulling the heavy ropes of the bells, he longed for something kinder in the world.” 

From the opposite side of the stage a man steps forward, dressed in a large black cloak, almost obscuring the familiar Bear mask. In his hands is an even more familiar staff. 

“And it bore questioning—who was the monster, and who was the man?” 

—

The scene changes, still a silence tenseness in the audience. 

This one depicts the once baby, now grown Claude speaking on how he yearns for freedom, to leave his tower and join the people in the city below. 

The Mother Frollo, of course, reappears to dash those dreams to her best ability. Her words cutting and cool, speaking of how none could love him nor treat him better than she, and certainly not accept his magical gifts. 

It is a good way to bring the tension of the previous scene back down, lull the watchers back into a sense of comfort now that a holy figure is no longer contemplating drowning a baby. 

And, if Solas has read some of those books in Haven’s Chantry correctly, historically some did try that to stave off a connection to the fade. _No matter how barbaric and ill thought_. 

Solas allows the words to wash over him, settling on observing the crowd around him more so rather than the show. He is interested, yes, but interested more in the reactions to it than the performance itself. 

That is, until—

“Here she comes!” A younger voice in the throngs of people whispers loudly, and Solas’s eyes flit back to the stage. 

This, then, is the Dalish character’s great entrance. 

“See the finest elf in Orlais, Telahmis,” The draskolisk masked man pauses, throwing down a fine powder and in the sudden lack of visibility she appears and he hops away. “ _Dance!_ ”

Mother Frollo, who is sitting in an elevated seat in the corner of the stage beside what is most certainly intended to be a Templar— _who wears a wolf mask with three sets of red eyes, no doubt referencing something they do not understand_ —sneers. 

“Look at that disgusting display,” Frollo says, displeased, and the wolf masked young woman grins, her mouth uncovered unlike the rest of her face. 

“Yes _ma’am_ ,” Wolf mask says jauntily. 

The scene moves on, showing the elf playing a masked crowd of villagers for coins, interspersed with more and more heated comments by the Chantry Mother. The intensity of which causes the crowd to fidget uncomfortably. 

Solas finds his attention caught, finally, on the stage instead of the audience. The Dalish actor is the only one without an animal mask, instead clad in an unfired clay mask painted with June’s Vallaslin, bells dripping from pierced ears and woven through the thick dreads. There is an uneasy feeling in his gut, mind dredging up long buried memories. 

June always did like theatre. 

This mockery of culture suddenly becomes too much. Seeing the way his people’s histories have been twisted and bent, overlayed on this obscene story of corrupt religion and the pitifulness of mages and elves—reminding him of everything that is wrong with this new reality post-veil. 

The next few scenes pass in a blur, as the Bear mask is dragged onto stage again to play the fool for the jeering townsfolk. What starts out as seemingly innocent fun turns sour when the masked crowd turns cruel at the sight of the mage staff. As hands reach to tear the mage’s cloak and pull the staff away, the fire is lit to highlight the apathetic posture of Mother Frollo, who waves off the templar’s quiet questions even as she turns her back on her son. 

“Will you not stop them?” the templar asks, looking conflicted at the scene. 

“In a moment, Captain. A lesson must be learnt here,” Mother Frollo replies, voice darkly amused. “A reminder that magic serves man, as is right.” 

There’s a wave of gasps from the townsfolk, and the attention pivots once again. 

The Dalish dancer bursts back onto the scene, pushing through the crowd to pull the mage to safety, tearing off her own cloak to wrap around the battered mage. The crowd mills in confusion. 

“What do you think you are doing?” The Mother cries, getting to her feet. “Leave, at once!” 

“Of course, Mother, I shall leave once this poor creature is tended to,” the dancer replies, brushing a corner of the cowering mage’s face as if in pity. 

“You would disobey _me_?” The Mother grinds out, pointing a finger in accusation. 

The dancer stands tall, turned fully towards Mother Frollo and her Templar. In the background the music starts back up its drumming. 

“I would disobey? Yes! You treat this child as poorly as you treat my people, you are nothing more than an old woman clinging to what power she can claw out of the hands of those less fortunate! You speak of justice and piety and honor, but as far as we are concerned—”

A hand gesture sweeps and includes the whole audience in this. 

“—you have _none_.” 

A gasp rings out from the crowd—both from the masked townsfolk, and the actual villagers watching. 

“Mark my words, Dalish, you will pay for this insolence,” Frollo says dangerously, pointing at the dancer. 

Solas, in the back of his mind that is not glued to the stage, wonders how this theatre troupe has not been arrested yet. 

The dancer takes a strong stance, addressing the crowd, both on the stage and off, sweeping her hand with the fabric crown that had been on Claude’s head. 

“Then it appears we have crowned the wrong King of Fools,” She states, tossing the crown to the Mother’s feet. “For the only fool I see here is _you._ ”

Solas glances to the side, seeing shock on even Tethras’ face, who shares a weighted glance with him, and such a cocktail of feeling on the Seeker’s face even he would not waste time attempting to decipher it. 

“Guards, arrest her,” Frollo orders, and both the Wolf masked Templar Captain and multiple other Templars edge towards the Dancer through the onstage onlookers. 

Telahmis puts one hand on her hip, counting them idly under her breath. 

“I see, so there’s ten of you, and just one of me,” She sighs. “What’s a poor elf to do?”

She mimes taking out a handkerchief from her shirt and crying, before—

 _Bang!_ More of the bright powder from earlier leaving her nowhere to be found. 

“ _Witchcraft!_ ” Mother Frollo hisses. 

Then follows a merry chase with playful music, and Solas must coach stiffness from his shoulders. 

This he should have expected from just the first scene alone. These _Les Étrangers_ clearly do not care who they offend, a clear cutting commentary on the Chantry at the forefront. 

“And the Chantry calls us heretics,” Varric mumbles to Solas’s side, and Solas offers only a huff of laughter in response. 

Cadash hushes them quickly as the scene is coming to a close. 

“Find her, _alive_ ,” Mother Frollo says to the Templar Captain, before turning to her son. 

Heretics indeed. 

—

Cassandra is paralyzed by emotion. That is what it feels like—as if someone has reached out and shackled her arms to the chair, pressed down on her chest so that she can’t even struggle out of the bonds. 

There is disgust, of course. At the perversion of the Chant being laid bare, at the way the actors mock the Chantry and all their faithful. The caricature of the Mother Frollo causes her stomach to roll, her throat to ache as she watches the hateful words spill forth. She knows, intellectually, that some view the Chantry as such, but to see it written plain like this is a different matter entirely. 

The idea that such a mockery was able to be put on so close to the capital—for one long moment she wonders if any of the Lord Seeker’s men have come across it already, if maybe that would explain his erratic behaviour. 

At the same time, there is a shameful part of her who delights in the story as it unfurls. The Templar in the Wolf mask dances across the stage with the elf, trading barbs and quips and flirting as well as any protagonist in one of Tethras’ books. The strange format of the play—the way the people act, as people, instead of as just puppets or as storytellers—drags her deeper into it all. 

The guilt digs deep. What would the Divine say if she were to see this? Would she be just as disgusted? Insulted? Or would she laugh over the clever tricks of costuming and fire? 

The two on stage pause in their dance of a candelabra and sword, the elf keeping her candelabra pointed at the Templar and the Templar keeping her sword lax in hand, non threatening. 

“If you permit me, I am Bridgette. It means goddess of fire,” The Templar, Bridgitte, pauses, nervously rubbing the back of her neck when the elf only lets off an energy of being unimpressed. “And, you are?”

“What is this, an interrogation?” The elf asks dryly. 

Bridgette sheaths her sword, holding her hands up. 

“It’s called an introduction.”

The elf, bells in her hair lightly jingling as she lowers her faux weapon, stills. 

“You’re not arresting me?” The elf asks, wary. 

The Templar shakes her head, and open from her mask lies a small smile on her face. 

“Not so long as you’re in here, I can’t,” She says, gesturing to the Chantry set up around them on stage. 

The elf sets down the candelabra, huffing. 

“You aren’t at all like those other Templars.”

“Thank you,” Bridgette says, half grinning. “And your name?”

“Telahmis,” Telahmis introduces, and the two actors step closer to one another. 

“Beautiful,” Bridgette murmurs, before jerking upright. “Ah, much better than Bridgette, anyways.”

Cassandra feels a sigh push out behind her clenched teeth and quickly stiffens her spine as the Herald glances her way. She furtively pretends to be busy scrutinizing the faux Chantry decor that now decorates the stage. They’ve somehow managed to change the scenery multiple times at this point—parts of what originally looked like a solid wall are pushed aside on wheels to reveal other painted murals, which combined with whatever clever trick of fire they use to light the scenes, is able to create a sense of space and time she’s yet to see from these sorts of shows.

She glances back at the actors on stage and feels her stomach dance for completely different reasons than before.

It’s just—this is how Templars _should_ behave, she can’t help but think. With piety, and gallantry, and a desire to do good. It soothes part of her to see at least one positive depiction of the Chantry, even if it is from a rather quick footed romance.

Her cheeks heat a little as the two talk. She can’t imagine herself ever speaking in such a manner to someone her order opposed quite so stringently—and yet she cannot deny how _romantic_ it is painted. She has never quite been able to rid herself of her blasted weakness to romance.

The two actors step closer and closer, only—!

Suddenly, the sound of one drum beat echoes, and the two jerk apart, the caricature of a Mother appearing with Templars at her back. 

Cassandra does not mouth a small “ _No!_ ” and she will deny it until the day she joins the Maker. 

“Good work Captain, now, _arrest her_ ,” The Mother says, Templars at her side drawing their swords. 

The Bridgette quickly turns her head from the Mother, a strained look on the bottom of her face. 

“ _Claim sanctuary_ ,” Bridgette stage whispers to Telahmis. “Say it!”

“You tricked me,” Telahmis says lowly back. 

“I’m waiting, _Captain_ ,” Mother Frollo says, stepping closer and closer to the pair. 

Bridgette turns, back straightening and almost putting herself in front of Telahmis as she faces the Mother. 

“I’m sorry, ma’am, she has claimed sanctuary,” Bridgette lies, plain faced. “There is nothing I can do.”

This! This is exactly as a Templar should do— _well_ , not lie to Mothers. But protect the innocent! As Andraste would wish!

“Then _drag her outside_ and—!” Mother Frollo starts, only to be interrupted as the Mother Deacon from the beginning of the show appears, walking with purpose. 

“You will do no such thing!” Mother Deacon says frankly, laying one gentle hand on Telahmis’s shoulder. “Do not worry, my dear, Mother Frollo learned many years ago what happens when she does not respect the sanctity of the Chantry.”

Mother Deacon ushers all the Templars, including Captain Bridgette, off of the stage, but Mother Frollo hides behind a pillar, before showing herself to Telahmis once again. 

“You think you’ve outwitted me,” Frollo almost _purrs_ , getting far too close to Telahmis. “But I am a patient woman, and Dalish do not do well in stone walls.”

“What are you doing?” Telahmis asks, an edge to her voice. 

“I was just imagining a _rope_ around that beautiful neck.”

No. They cannot be implying—

Telahmis pushes Frollo away, stepping quickly back. 

“I know what you were imagining,” Telahmis says through gritted teeth. 

Mother Frollo straightens her mockery of chantry robes. “Such a clever witch. So _typical_ of your kind to twist the truth and cloud the mind with _unholy thoughts_.”

No, absolutely no—this, obscenity cannot—they would not _dare_ —

“Oh shit,” Tethras mutters at her side, and she turns to sputter incoherently at him.

“This is—!” 

“Oh, don’t be naive now Seeker,” the dwarf replies nervously, bringing up his hands in supplication.. “It’s not as if this should come as a surprise, considering the character.” 

“But a Mother—” she trails off. The idea is so abhorrent she is struggling to put it into words. “This is. This is _indecent_.” 

“A little more than just indecent,” the Herald mutters at her other side, eyes still glued to the stage, enthralled. “Obscene? Heretical? Obscenely heretical?” 

“This is—I mean, no Mother would ever _dare_ —” she has to wave her hand in frustrated emotion. “This is not just a mockery of the faith, it borders on malicious slander.” 

Tethras gives her a pitying look. 

“You mean you’ve never met someone in a position of power who might get a little heavy handed with said power? Who maybe doesn't care much about the people they consider beneath them? Come off it Seeker, I know you’ve met your fair share of nobles.” 

“Nobles are not Chantry Mothers,” Cassandra hisses back, only for the Herald to shush them both. 

“Look, the scene is changing,” he whispers to them, not even turning his head. 

—

Varric Tethras has gathered a couple things from this play. 

One, these actors have the biggest fucking balls in Thedas. Not only have they written the most scathing commentary on the Chantry to date, but they’re performing it just outside the Capital of Orlais and haven’t been hanged yet for blasphemy. 

Two, Varric is going to meet whoever wrote this and sign them onto his publisher before anyone else. Solid plot and characters from a bunch of _minstrels_? Either a divine fluke or an untapped goldmine. 

Scenes pass of Telahmis bonding with Claude, both relating due to their isolation and growing closer, and of Bridgette being slowly added to that dynamic. 

Which, very smart of the playwrights to have at least one sympathetic Chantry member in the cast. Keeps them from completely isolating that demographic if Seeker’s willingness to stay seated is any indication. 

A more cheerful tune fades out onstage, as Mother Frollo steps to the center, looking up and out. 

What ensues sends the crowd into shocked silence once more. 

Frollo, a truly _terrible_ and wonderful villain, begins to sing, and the music in the background sways to join her. 

And it’s not any old Chantry hymn, oh no, one could never expect that from these performers. That would be too tame, too _pedestrian_. It wouldn't have the same amount of emotional shock.

She’s singing about her perverted thoughts about Telahmis in a way that speaks of warring between pious righteousness and being a piece of shit. 

Which she is, the troupe has hit that home, this woman is an irredeemable villain and Varric respects that. 

Varric glances to the side and sees the absolutely _stricken_ look on the Seeker’s face, pale and horrified but not surprised. At this point, even she cannot be surprised by the depths of Mother Frollo’s depravity. 

The music on stage rises, overpowering, the chorus cresting in a fever pitch. 

“Like fire! Hellfire!” Frollo sings, and fire does rise behind her, and Andraste’s tits Varric can feel the heat from here. “This fire in my skin.”

“This burning _desire_ is turning _me_ to _sin._ ”

Varric lets out a half awed breath. The _balls._

The fire reaches its height as red cloaked figures appear on stage, chanting chantry hymns as Frollo pleads with them on her knees on how it’s not her fault. 

The red cloaked figures walk out and leave Frollo alone, gripping a scarf Telahmis had had. 

She stands, quickly, talking on how either she’ll burn Telahmis or have her for her own as she’s staring into the fires, before a Templar appears. 

“The Dalish elf has escaped.”

Frollo quickly collects herself, scarf still clasped tightly in hand. 

“How— _fine_ , get out you idiot, I will find her myself.”

Varric glances to Cadash, seeing him still completely focused on the stage, then Chuckles, who looks far more subtle about his interest. 

And finally, Seeker again. Who just as he thought, is still clutching her proverbial pearls with one hand over her mouth and leaned in, eyes glued to Frollo.

“Choose me or, your pyre,” Frollo sings, darkly, into the flames. “Be mine or you will burn!”

And the scarf is tossed into the flames, leaving Varric to wonder in the back of his brain how many scarves they go through every month. From his own experiences in storytelling, any prop like that is going to end up costing more than expected. 

The story continues, following a frantic chase around the city as Mother Frollo rips it apart in search of the elf. Along the way, other elves are uncovered and terrorised, pulled out of homes and clasped in chains. The outright cruelty isn’t a surprise at this point, but right off of the emotional upheaval of the last song, it straddles the lines of too much. 

The whole play straddles the line, if he is honest. 

As the violence washes over the city, Bridgette is seen becoming more and more tense, although it seems like she is not quite brave enough to confront the Mother about it directly. 

“This isn’t going to end well,” mutters Cadash over the hush of the audience, and there’s a soft murmur of agreement from Chuckles. 

And then it comes to a climax. 

Frollo wants to burn down a house with a family who were harboring elves inside. 

“Burn it, there must be an example,” Frollo says, holding a torch out to Bridgette. 

Bridgette doesn’t take the torch. 

“I wasn’t taught to kill innocents,” Bridgette says lowly, one hand on the pommel of her sword and her lower face blank. 

“But you were taught to follow orders,” Frollo says, sneering cooly, torch shoved into Bridgette’s hand. 

Bridgette stares at Frollo, silence tense and only broken by a quiet “ _No!_ ” from Seeker. 

Bridgette does an about face, and dunks the torch in a barrel of water. 

“Not for you,” Bridgette says, frankly. “Not for anyone.”

What follows is Frollo setting the house aflame anyways, Bridgette running in and saving the family, and more dramatics that end in the main three characters meeting back up in Notre Dame. 

The Seeker is as tense as a bow string at his side, looking a moment away from snapping and marching up there to kill Mother Frollo herself. Varric has to applaud the playwrights—it goes to show how well crafted it all is that they have been able to convince someone so ardent in the faith. 

The trio’s respite is short-lived, as Mother Frollo and her Templars rush into Notre-Dame, brandishing raised swords. 

“No!” a heated whisper snaps to his left, and he purposefully keeps his eyes turned to the front. He’s not sure he wants to see the Seeker’s expression right now. 

The lights bank low, casting the scene in ominous dim light. The exchange that follows is as nauseating as Varric has come to expect from the play’s villain. As the three are forced into chains and dragged into the courtyard, the uneasy murmur from the audience has become background noise. 

The unease only grows as wood is dragged onto stage, piled into a pyre at the centre. The parallel isn’t lost on him—a rebellious young girl being pursued by someone in power, trying to save her people, and being put to the stake to burn? At this point they might as well slap a blond wig on her and call her Andraste. 

The fact that their version of the saviour is elven is going to put a bee in the Chantry’s bonnet for sure. 

“The prisoner Telahmis has been found guilty of the crime of blood magic,” Mother Frollo cries out, facing the audience. Rolling drums echo through the courtyard, building tension even as Varric can see people half rising to their feet. 

“The sentence, _death_ ,” the Mother spits. 

As the crowd cries out, and the Templars restrain even the Mother Deacon from interfering, for a moment Varric has to wonder if this story will end up a tragedy after all. It seems a bit distasteful for a festival, but then again, the whole play has seemed eager to shrug off good taste. 

“Well, elf?” Mother Frollo croons, leaning close with a lit torch in hand. “It is not too late—chose me, or the fire.” 

“Suck a dick," Telahmis snaps, attempting to kick the the Chantry Mother.

There is a shocked moment of silence, before the Mother pulls back. 

“The elf has refused to repent,” she addresses the crowd, seemingly unphased by the rejection, although there’s a certain twist to what can be seen under the mask of answering cruelty. As the rant continues, Varric leans back a little to check in on the rest of the audience. 

Some of them are on their feet, while others have leaned forward precariously in the wooden seats. He quickly sketches the scene down in words—he has a feeling he’ll want to remember this exact moment in the future. 

The Mother does a clever sleight of hand, dosing the torch in a bucket that Varric can just spot from his vantage point, as the fires behind the stages are stoked to flaring once more. Gasps ring out, and it isn’t until he hears a startled gasp from someone behind him that he notices the struggling Claude break free of his bonds. 

The mage skids across the stage floor, reaching for the staff that was left abandoned in a previous scene—forgotten about by even the audience—and there’s shouts from all around, from the actors and the crowd and even from the Seeker at his side, as he grasps his hand on the wood and hurtles to his feet again. 

“You will not _touch_ her,” he snarls, looking like his mask’s namesake for one glorious minute, backlit by the fire. 

The staff is raised up, the fires abruptly doused, even as Telahmis’ actor reaches into her coat to pull out a blue scarf and throw it over herself. 

“Hmmm,” Chuckles hums at his other side. 

“The only way they could be more audacious is if they used actual magic,” Varric agrees, riveted to the scene as the audience reacts around them. 

The actors on stage play out an all out brawl, as townsfolk and Templars trade fake blows, and the Chantry Mother faces off against the mage. The other actors fade off stage as the trio become the focus once more, the decor in the back changing in a dizzying whirl as the scene moves up the Chantry Tower. 

What follows is a classic tale of hubris—the Mother chases the two across the roofs of the tower, cornering them finally at the edge of the stonework. A scuffle breaks out, and it looks for a moment like both sides will fall off, before, showing the surprising goodness of the mage’s character, Mother Frollo is saved from the fall. 

And, showing the unrepentant wickedness that the audience has come to expect from the Mother, she ignores her still dangling child and moves towards Telahmis, sword raised. 

“Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter,” the Mother chants, rising above the injured elf like a dragon about to strike, as the fires behind them light the both of them in sinister fire. 

The audience is shocked into silence. 

Although it is impossible to see the Mother’s eyes through the raven mask, Varric can almost swear he sees the unholy light of her twisted righteousness from where he sits. There is a choked gasp from his left, and a quick glance confirms that the Seeker has both hands covering her mouth. 

“Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just,” Mother Frollo croons, stepping closer even as Telahmis attempts to crawl backwards. 

Frollo raises her sword, clasped in both hands and held like a sacrificial dagger. 

"With neither blade nor shield, Andraste gave herself up

To her enemies. And Maferath bound his wife's hands

And delivered her to the Archon to be put to _death_."

The blade plunged downward, and just as Varric is certain this really _will_ be a tragedy, Claude smacks the sword away with his staff, and Bridgette runs Mother Frollo through with her sword from behind. 

The music all stops abruptly, leaving only the breathing of the people around Varric loud and his quickly beating heart in his ears. 

They didn’t actually stab her, of course. These might be some stellar actors but they aren’t going to die for their craft. The sword is settled in between Frollo’s arm and her middle, before Bridgette pulls it out with a sense of finality.

Frollo clutches her side, lips pulled in agony, and looks to the fires behind them. 

“ _Hellfire_ ,” The Mother utters, and the stage is as still as the crowd. “Maker preserve me.”

And, she drops. 

The curtains close. 

There’s a moment of silence in this crowd of teens and _Nous Autres_ , before one person starts clapping, and then it’s a standing encore. 

“ _Stone_ ,” Cadoc utters, blinking like a trance has been lifted from him and running a hand down his face. “I’ve never seen a play like _that._ ”

The crowd mills about for a moment, excited voices exclaiming over scenes and pieces of dialogue, while others slink away guiltily. Blank masked helpers quickly set about taking down the stage and its decor. He wonders if the masks are not just for the dramatics of the stage—considering the controversial nature of the play itself, it might be a security measure. 

“Let’s go, before they pack everything up,” Cadoc urges, pushing through the audience without waiting for the others. Varric has to wonder how he does it sometimes—they’re about the same height and yet Ceecee always seems to be that much quicker, to the point where even now he’s rapidly losing sight of the fellow dwarf. 

They follow, of course, even as the Seeker sputters a bit and Chuckles sighs in something approaching exasperation. 

“I’m guessing he wants to say hi,” Varric offers, huffing a laugh. “Can’t say I don’t want to do the same. You don’t see this kind of audacity very often.” 

“I cannot believe the Chantry has not attempted to stop them,” the Seeker says, still looking a bit shell shocked. 

“Perhaps they have—or perhaps they have bigger worries at the moment,” Chuckles muses, nodding to where even now the Breach illuminates the night sky. 

“I guess that makes us the bigger worry,” Varric laughs, just as they catch up with the errant leader. 

Cadash has somehow found a way through the various workers and seems to have just spotted a few of the actors, and Varric jogs quickly over before he can leave them behind again. If they leave the Herald alone for too long, who knows what trouble he’ll find—and it usually is trouble. 

“—it was a rush, but I’ll be honest, I’m not sure how many times my nerves can handle doing that. Oh, not to say I’m not thankful! This means a lot to us all,” Telahmis is saying as they get closer. 

“No, no, of course. You have your own life anyways—we don’t expect the Telahmis role to be the same from town to town. It makes sense to give back to the communities we play in by hiring local talent,” the Wolf masks says, shaking their head even as they uncap a canteen to guzzle it down. Now that the magic of the stage is over, Varric can spot just how exhausted and frazzled the actors all look. 

It looks like Telahmis might have something to say about that, but then the Wolf notices them approach and quickly shushes them. The elf glances at the group for a moment before snapping a hand out at a nearby worker to whisper something quickly in their ear, who nods and scurries off. 

“Good evening,” Wolf mask greets, and from this up close, Varric can see that she sounds and looks much younger than she did onstage. “What can we do for you?”

Cadash holds out a hand to shake, and Varric has to avoid rolling his eyes at the very Carta greeting. 

“I wanted to know who wrote that play,” Cadash says, and he is _very much fanboying._ The Herald of Andraste, _fanboying._

Wolf mask takes his hand and shakes it without hesitating, a smile on what can be seen of her lips. 

“Oh, you’ll want to talk to Dad then,” she says with a small laugh, before turning to shout out across the bustle of the crowd. “DAD!” 

Varric and Cadoc share a glance, before turning to try and peer in the direction that she yelled, but it is Chuckles who spots the figure who turns their way in response first, based on the way Varric sees him blinking in confusion.

Sure enough, after a moment a familiar actor steps into their circle, the Raven mask sitting a bit crooked as they finish pulling a long cloak over their shoulders. They’re out of the Chantry garb now, at least, which might explain why the Seeker hasn’t exploded yet, even if her expression is rather tight. 

“Yes?” the Raven asks, sounding and looking much too young to be anyone’s father, nevermind the Wolf’s. 

“These fine folk want to talk to our writer,” the Wolf says with pointed emphasis, nodding to the three of them. At her side, Telahmis looks between the two groups and smartly decides to bow out with a wave. 

Cadoc turns to the Raven without missing a beat. 

“I haven’t seen anything quite like that—how did you come up with it?” he asks excitedly, thrusting a hand out to shake again. 

The Raven reaches out and, instead of shaking the offered hand like a rational soul, leans far down to brush their lips against the back of Cadoc’s fingers, carefully positioned so that the beak of the mask doesn’t get in the way. 

There’s a moment of still surprise from all of them. 

Then, it’s broken by Wolf, huffing a laugh and covering it with a cough. 

“Technically I wasn’t the only one to come up with it,” Raven says dryly, looking to the side as they rise to their full height again. 

Wolf grins. “I was not facing a Seeker on this one alone, Daddio. I’m _squishy_.”

That’s fair. 

“You seem remarkably young to have helped in creating such a show,” Chuckles says, hands clasped behind his back loosely. 

Wolf turns to him, and her head tilts like the animal her mask depicts. 

“Since when did youth matter when creating a cutting political commentary?” Wolf asks, voice half teasing. 

“Even the young must live in the society our elders have built,” Raven says, mirroring Chuckle’s posture. “Especially when we are the ones that have to live with the consequences.” 

“And that—that despicable caricature of a Mother?” the Seeker asks, looking like she’s heard nothing since the end of the show. Varric isn’t even sure how the two comments connect. 

“Oh, I do hope it didn’t shock you too much, Seeker,” Raven says, cocking their head again. “But when writing, it was obvious that the character needed to be in a position of power and prestige. And what is more powerful than the Chantry? Why, they’re not even a part of the governing royalty, and yet they enjoy the power to decide the very fate of those that live in it’s borders. And history will show us that unchecked power is as corrupting as any vice. Just as it shows that eventually, when said power becomes corrupted for too long, well. Things become volatile.” 

The Wolf chokes a little and nudges the Raven in the side, who ignores her to continue. 

“Why, you could even say that it’s as explosive as a keg of spirits.” 

Varric has to suck a quick breath through his teeth at that. They didn’t _actually_ say what he thought they just did, right? 

Wolf looks skyward, as if pleading to a higher power. 

“We’re gonna get arrested. You can’t just _say it_ straight up, Dad,” Wolf says, before looking back down. “I apologize for my friend being abrasive, though not for the sentiment.”

Wolf looks plainly at the Seeker, mouth pulled into a frown. 

“It doesn’t matter why someone is in authority, they should always be questioned. Maybe especially a Chantry Mother.”

“That’s an unpopular opinion,” Cadash says, and from a glance Varric sees his enthusiasm hasn’t been tempered by the pretty blatant blasphemy. 

“And more unpopular to say it in front of a Herald of that faith,” Wolf hums, looking at him. 

Cassandra seems to be trying to regain her wits, but Solas and Varric share a glance. This definitely isn’t a normal theatre troupe. 

“How’d you figure it out?” Cadash asks with a groan. “Hand is covered and everything.”

“ _Vibes_ ,” Wolf says with a laugh, getting a nudge from Raven for her trouble. 

“More specifically, the hand might be covered, but you are traveling with some rather famous company—and, sorry to say, but the rumours don’t just stop at just you,” Raven says, smiling for the first time. 

“All of us?” Chuckles asks with a raised brow. It’s true that between Varric himself, and Cassandra “Right Hand of the Divine” Pentaghast, Chuckles is a lot less conspicuous. 

The two actors share a glance again. 

“Well, if you run in the right circles…” the Wolf replies sheepishly. “Although I don’t know if the rumours ever actually mentioned you by name. It was usually just ‘bald elf apostate’.” 

There’s a twitch from Chuckles at that. 

“How rude of us!” Ceecee gasps, stepping in. “We haven’t even introduced ourselves. And, honestly, thinking of you both by your character names is getting a little weird.” 

Names are exchanged quickly—even the Seeker unbends enough to contribute—and finally they’re left watching as the two actors visibly debate how much they’re willing to share. 

“I am known professionally in _Les Étrangers_ as _Le Corbeau_ , but the main troupe refers to me as Dad. Yes, there is a story behind it, and no, I will most likely not tell you it. Unless you want to pay for it, of course.” 

Wolf runs a hand through her hair, huffing. “My stage name is _Le Loup_ , my parents called me Bianca, I go by Lilith. Ditto on explaining why without coin incentive.”

_Bianca?_

“That’s a dwarven name,” Ceecee says, and the whole group notes that Lilith is only a couple inches taller than him. 

“Is it?” Lilith asks, head tilting again. “Huh. _Fun_.”

“Well I personally wouldn’t mind hearing what other stories the both of you have to tell,” Varric offers. “Even if it means paying a few coin. I don’t suppose you have time to swap tales over a pint?” 

“Hah, well, we might actually be safe from insulted Templars if the Inquisition is with us, but—” Lilith starts, before the Raven—Dad, and boy is that hard to even think—places a hand on her head and chuckles. 

“Unfortunately that’s not going to be in the cards for a while. Maybe in, hmm. Six months or so?” Dad says, before turning towards Chuckles intently and stepping forward to peer at him a little closer. 

“Speaking of, have you ever thought of trying theatre yourself? You have quite a striking…” a hand wave, “...look.” 

“It’s the cheekbones,” Lilith hums, stepping up as well and tapping her chin. “Definitely the voice. Have you considered growing the hair out? Long?”

Varric has to stifle a surprised laugh, covering it with a cough as Solas pretends he isn’t trying not to stare wide eyed at the two actors. Ceecee looks almost _jealous_ at his side. 

“He is an apostate, you said so yourself!” Seeker hisses, arms crossed. 

Lilith waves her off. “Who cares about magic, all we want to know is if he can memorize his lines. Sorry to try and poach one of your own in front of you, Cadash.”

Ceecee doesn’t have it in him to be offended, Varric can see it in his face. 

“ _I wish you’d try and poach me_ ,” Ceecee grumbles, before sparing a wary glance at the Seeker. “You two sure you can’t stay for a drink or two?”

Lilith half grins and shows sharper than normal canines. 

“We need to pack up and hightail out of here by sunrise, and I don’t drink,” Lilith explains, gesturing to the stage and set being broken down and packed away around them. 

“More like couldn’t if you wanted,” Dad says, giving the girl a look. 

Lilith becomes faux offended immediately. 

“ _You’re not my real Dad_ ,” Lilith huffs, puffed up. “And I’m the miniature dictator here, don’t make me put you in timeout or something.”

There’s a long pause as Dad just stares at the girl. 

“I could carry you under my arm like a sack of potatoes. What are you going to do? Pout at me?” 

“I can get creative.”

Dad stares up at the sky as if in supplication.  
  
“So you keep saying. And yet…” They shake their head. “Anyways, I need to get back to actual work. Feel free to gossip with our adoring fans while the adults finish up. Wouldn’t want you to stay up too late after your bedtime.” 

They nod to the group and sarcastically salutes the sputtering Lilith before turning on their heels and marching back to the rest of the workers. 

“Max! We have any leftover Kabobs?” Varric can just hear them yell out as they’re soon swallowed up in the crowd. 

“This is insubordination or something,” Lilith says, and Varric can hear the eyeroll in her voice. “I bring this group together and what do I get? Height jokes, age jokes…”

Lilith turns to them, smirking. 

“If you excuse me, I’m going to go carry a very heavy set piece on my own in front of Dad just to make them sweat, and not let them help. Have a good evening!”

Lilith walks off, steps silent on the stone cobble beneath her and disappears into the crowd after her friend as if she was never there at all. 

The group is left with more questions than answers than they started with. 

—

“Holy fucking shit,” Dad mutters, pulling their outfit off as quickly as possible and snagging a confused Max as they go. “We are so fucked.” 

“What’s up?” 

“We need to be packed up and on the road as quick as possible, but we need to have an inner circle meeting first,” Dad mutters, tugging their Raven mask off so that they can pull the black face mask on instead. “Thank god you warned us they were there, I would have probably forgotten all my lines out of surprise otherwise.”

Max nods, looking grim and fiddling with his hands. “They’re not exactly subtle, are they? For declared heretics.”

“They’ve got to be living in a pretty strange bubble right now,” Dad snorts, shaking their head. “Can you get the others? I think Kaylee should be packing up the instruments, but I’m not sure of the rest.”

“Yeah, sure. Where we meeting?” 

“The changing rooms should be empty by now, and they offer the most privacy,” Dad replies after a moment of thought. 

Max nods, Bear mask bobbing a bit, and moves off. 

Dad sighs. 

“Fucking _Inquisition_ ,” they mutter, just as Lilith catches up with them.

“The luck of them approaching the best liars in this group is immeasurable,” Lilith hisses, tearing off her mask and grabbing her black cloth one out of her pocket, quickly covering the bottom half of her face. “Nice job on us both playing into our natural banter.”

“We both would still be bantering even if the sky was falling—oh wait.” They glance up at the sky. “It is.”

A snort answers them, and they both quickly head off to the curtained off changing rooms behind the stage still being torn down.

It’s not too much longer after that that the rest of the group wanders in, one after another. Some of them have also already discarded their theatre masks for the comfort of cloth, while a few only pull theirs off once they’re in the relative privacy of the room. 

“Anyone else feel like we just got away with murder?” someone says as they all end up crowded into the small room. Dad thinks it might be May, but it’s hard to tell. Eight people in a room that was designed for at most five doesn’t lend itself to easy conversation. 

“Right, well, we got away with the murder of the Chantry’s reputation, but we’re not out of the woods yet,” Dad says, snapping their fingers to get people’s attention. “Roll call—where are we at in terms of tear down?” 

“Max reporting for duty, food supplies and cookware are already away,” Max says, raising a hand. 

“Jay,” Jay starts, voice dry. “All our hired help have been paid.”

“Kaylee here,” Kaylee says, raising a hand. Dad can see her in the crowded space much clearer, her turtle mask still in place. “Instruments should be put away by the time we leave this meeting.”

“Frank, and I’ll have all our masks accounted for once the rest of the set crew finish packing up.”

“Scripts have been accounted for,” Lilith says at Dad’s side, arms crossed. “And I am very much present.”

“May! And all paints and other crafting miscellaneous have been packed up since this morning,” May pipes up cheerfully. 

One final report. 

“Kyla, present, like Frankie said the stage is probably the only thing we don’t have away yet. Costumes are safely settled in their boxes unless one of us has them on.”

“Right, and the fires have been doused and luckily the suppression system hasn’t broken yet—” A few people snort, “—So hopefully we’ll be on schedule. Now. I know we’ve talked about it vaguely but. What the fuck do we want to do about the Inquisition?” 

There’s a long silence from the group. 

“Sleep with them?” someone offers, only to get slapped over the arm in return. 

“No sleeping with any of them,” Dad decrees. “Nope. I refuse. I see one smooch and I’m sending you all back to the Hinterlands covered in honey for the bears.” 

“I want to argue that,” Lilith says with a sigh. “But I’m too young to have sex with any of them anyways so decree is seconded.”

“Not even a little?” May, it’s definitely May, pipes up. 

“If I can’t cuddle Dorian you can’t ride the Bull, May,” Max huffs.  
  
“Honestly wouldn’t it be better to just, stay as far away as possible?” Frank asks, looking troubled.

“Well it for sure wouldn’t be safe to try and join them while they’re still in Haven. I have no desire to die by dragon fire,” Dad replies. “Especially not before we find out whether Cadash is going to go with the mages or the Templars.” 

There’s a pause as they all collectively imagine trying to join an Inquisition that sided with the Templars. More than a few shudder reflexively. 

“Especially considering our own little _predicament_ ,” Lilith says darkly, wiggling her fingers. 

“Unluckiest idiots to wake up in Thedas,” Kyla says with a grimace, staring down at her own hands. 

“Regardless, there is a moral argument to be made about having knowledge and not using it,” Lilith says, leaning into the side of whoever is nearest, that currently being Dad at the moment. “Morally it could be argued we’re obligated to help. Then again, we don’t really owe this world anything.”

“I’m more worried about whatever phenomenon brought us here might be expecting. Because let’s be honest, if someone was looking for a group of heroes to help save the day from the big bad wolf, we aren’t it,” Dad replies, raising a brow. 

“We do have, collectively, a whole lot of information and lore,” Max offers. “That’s power in itself.” 

“Well, we’re no longer starving or getting chased by bears, and we’re even making money. I for one don’t care what we decide, as long as it’s not going back to the fucking Hinterlands,” Jay snorts.

“I think, logically, the best we can do is grow our reputation and power as we are. And, when we’ve established ourselves more...Well, a traveling troupe of artists and storytellers and actors hear a lot,” Dad says slowly, blinking in thought. 

“This is about you wanting to have a spy empire again, isn’t it?” Kaylee asks, clearly making a face under her mask. 

“I am very much a fan of the spy empire!” Lilith says, raising her hand. 

“Can we establish how we would _maintain_ the spy empire first?” Kyla asks, pushing up her glasses, voice very exasperated. 

“With our iron fists,” Frank says in deadpan, fiddling with his draskolisk mask.

“And blackmail!” Lilith adds. “I have some of it already, we could be _very good at it_.”

“I am very good at organising people,” Dad replies, in a tone that verges on threatening. “The only thing we need to sustain the amount of people we would need to realistically be of use to the Inquisition—or to just survive the upcoming events if we don’t want to join—is money.” 

“Ah, sweet sweet capitalism,” Lilith sighs. 

“Right, so. Survive, get rich, cause mayhem?” Dad offers. 

“Survive, get rich, cause mayhem,” the group echoes. 

Thedas never saw them coming. 


	2. The Show, Part Deux

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The troupe's luck is starting to wane.

Esmé is not used to sitting in a wagon for long periods of time, and she’s finding that all those novels of adventure and romance she read as a young girl don’t quite prepare you for just how rough the ride actually is. The roads are unpaved, filled with cracks and bumps and sometimes even whole trees to block the path—more than once one of Les Étrangers will complain about it, making vague comments on how poorly Orlais spends its money on the infrastructure of the actual country.

She has no real clue what they mean with that. But then again, a lot of what the troupe says is a complete mystery to her. She doesn’t quite know if theatre just happens to attract odd folk, or if perhaps folk turn odd because of theatre. She doesn’t think she’s changed too much from her brief stint as Telahmis, but she’s only done it a few times.

“Ah fuck,” someone mutters in the back of the cart, accompanying a loud bang. “We didn’t need that half opened bottle of—uh, I think this is fish oil?”

Esmé turns quickly, blinking wide eyed when she spots one of the Les Éstrangers, Jay(?) she believes, crawling out from the back of the cart with two leather bags in his arms with dark brows furrowed. The bottom half of his face, much like the rest of the main troupe, is covered by a dark cloth mask.

His eyes widen at the sight of Esmé, then crinkle, a tell tale sign of a smile.

“Oh, hello there,” He grunts, squeezing past two boxes. “Sorry, terrible at names, I know you played Telahmis in the last town, right?”

“Oh, ah, yes. That’d be me,” Esmé murmurs, watching the young man struggle. “Do you need help?”

He makes an attempt at waving her off, but his arms are full so it really looks like he’s flapping his hand against one of the bags.

“No, no, I’m fine all on my own.” Esmé really doubts it.

With a final huff the human plops down beside Esmé.

“Nice to meet you, I’m Jay,” Jay greets, voice wry.

“Esmé,” Esmé says, subtly eying the bags and wondering what’s in them.

That is another thing. _Les Étrangers_ were oddly secretive for ones who smiled so openly and were so amicable. Questions on where any were from, as Esmé had asked Lilith a few days after they first started rehearsing, only got her vague statements about the coast and derailed into how much she hates sand.

Dad, as the main group called them, or _Le Corbeau_ as the rest did, had simply shrugged and mentioned a quiet town near the mountains. Similar statements were all one could gain from the rest of them.

“You can ask,” Jay says, lifting an eyebrow. “I don’t bite. Much.”

“What...is all that?” she asks hesitantly.

“No clue, Dad picked it up in the last town and keeps saying they’ll eat my eyeballs if I snoop. I’m going to hide it under the lockbox and see how long it takes them to notice.”

She stares at him for a moment.

“Why?”

He shifts where he’s sitting, nudging a few things out of the way, and starts digging around in the boxes she’s sitting next to.

“For the memes,” he answers, except of course that doesn’t answer anything.

“The...memes? Who are memes?” She rolls the word around in her mouth a few times—sometimes it feels like the group is speaking a completely new language. It would explain the odd mix of accents.

“Oh, you sweet summer child,” he says with a grin, turning away from where he’s hiding the bags to face her completely. “Memes are god—memes are life.”

“It’s a, philosophy then?” She’s struggling to decipher his meaning exactly, and part of her despairs of ever getting an actual answer from any of them for anything not directly related to the show. She has no idea what they’re hiding, exactly, but it’s quite obvious that they are.

“Are you corrupting our guest, Jay?” A voice interrupts, as Kyla pokes her head through the cloth opening of the wagon. She catches a glimpse of the half hidden bags and raises a brow.

“I’m not getting in between you two when Dad finds out,” she warns.

Jay scoffs, waving a hand. “They’ll never find out. Probably. Right, Esmé?”

Esmé blinks, wide eyed, looking between the two of them.

“Um.”

Kyla shakes her head. “Don’t answer that, E, he’s just trying to create chaos.”

Then, they’re interrupted by a particularly deep hole in the road, causing Kyla to yelp, clutching the side of the wagon as Jay curses.

“You know who did this better?” Jay asks the air, tone searing. “The _Romans_.”

“A lot of places did and have done roads better than Orlais,” Kyla grumbles, regaining her balance. “Mexico, Canada…”

“Jacksonville, Florida did it better and they failed at everything,” Lilith, who hops up the back of the wagon panting, says as cheerfully as possible. “Hello, Esmé, Ky, _Jay_.”

The teasing tone pointed at Jay is not new.

“What did I do?” Jay asks, raising his hands as if in surrender.

“Absolutely nothing,” Lilith hums, punching his shoulder as she grabs the bags he hid without hesitation. “You know what? Actually, purple sus.”

Jay makes a sputtering sound, “ _Why do you only bully me_?” following it, as Lilith loops both bags over her shoulders and hops off the moving wagon with ease.

“You’re going to break an ankle!” Kyla shouts to the youngest of the bunch.

“If I die I die!” Lilith calls back, already running ahead to one of the other wagons.

“I’m not fixing it if she does get injured,” Jay mutters, shaking his head.

Esmé is left blinking in the wake of that exchange. She understood maybe a fifth of what was going on in that conversation, but that’s not a new thing with this group. As much as she is thankful for the coin and the company traveling, part of her is looking forward to leaving them and speaking to people who make sense again.

“And now we don't even know what was in there,” Kyla muses with a laugh. “Anyways, I was originally coming to get you because Max needed you for a thing.”

Jay abandons the now hopelessly disorganized boxes and hops out of the moving cart with a wave. After a quick goodbye, Kyla steps back out of view of the opening, and Esmé can hear their muffled bickering fade off.

She sighs.

Somehow, despite some of them being even older than she is, the group makes her feel old.

“You get used to them,” a voice rasps, as the bundle of black fabric in the corner moves. Esmé stifles a yelp—she’d known someone was there, but forgotten about it completely by the time Jay had arrived.

Dad brushes a bit of dirty blond hair out of their eyes—Esmé has been attempting to figure out a good way to ask if she can cut it, since she’s pretty sure the human has been just hacking at it with a knife—and stretches.

“They’re very…” How does she say this without offending them? “... _energetic_.”

Eccentric would be a far better word for it, energetic doesn’t really fit right. For all the Les Étrangers’ quick wits and words they’re not particularly fast moving.

“We’re all running on about sixty percent adrenaline, and forty percent spite. It’s a powerful combination,” Dad laughs. “And, to be honest, I’m not sure how long it can last. Hopefully for long enough that we’re able to get ourselves situated.”

“Is that a worry?”

As far as she knows, the troupe has done quite well for themselves. The controversial nature of the shows they’ve put on have made them well attended, even when the audience is scandalised. And they have a dozen or so projects outside the actual theatre to make money or spread their name, from food stalls to merchandise to the network of workers they employ.

“It’s always a worry, especially with the powder keg the world is in right now. I mean, it’s not just the regular tension between the Chantry and everyone else, or the mages and Templars. We also have demons raining from the sky. That’s a lot to deal with for even regular people.”

...Is that meant to indicate that they’re not regular people?

“Regular people?” Esmé prods, even if she knows she shouldn’t. She feels as if she is treading on delicate eggshells, the line between keeping in these frankly very kind Humans and gaining their ire.

She has had Humans exploit her weakness before, and she is reasonably wary.

Though, that is another oddity.

Not once have the words “Rabbit” or “Knife Ear” been uttered in Esmé’s presence, and from their general business practices, plays, and other various performances never once have they fallen into the cruelty or unkindness she has seen Humans prone to.

It’s refreshing! To see such decency is so very refreshing. And her eggshells, she admits, is more her not wishing to see if there is some unforeseen turn waiting for her at her most vulnerable.

Esmé is lucky, she did not grow up in an Alienage, but that does not take away her understanding of the danger. She has lost too many friends and family to believe otherwise.

Dad turns to face her for a moment with something like a grin, and gives a little wink, but does not answer.

Perhaps if she stays around a little longer, she’ll actually get something of a clear answer.

—

The Chargers are set up in a small Orlesian coastal town, waiting for their ship to arrive so they can get moving. The Iron Bull has already sent Krem off to try and get in with the Inquisition, but if they want to be in the Storm Coast in time for the Venatori to land, they’ll need to find a ship captain that won’t keep delaying.

The Iron Bull is wondering about trying to see if a little more intimidation will get the gears running—the captain is a small, mousy man with an unfortunately large ego—when the caravan rolls into town.

“Seems like an acting troupe, Chief,” Rocky says, fiddling a deck of cards. “Grim seems pretty excited about it.”

 _Les Éstrangers_. The Iron Bull has never heard of them, but Dalish and Skinner apparently have.

“New to Orlais,” Skinner says. She’s been polishing her knives for the past half hour, eyes flickering to the door of the tavern every few minutes or so, more than usual. “Bunch of Shems, weird accents, but they’ve pissed in the Chantry’s oatmeal since getting here.”

“More than pissed! They’ve got a Dalish main character in one of their shows,” Dalish says wryly.

Interesting, not a big ass hole in the sky interesting, but still interesting.

They don’t reach real levels of interest until he gets dragged by his Chargers to a show. They have nothing better to do, between waiting for their ship, and although The Iron Bull usually tries to keep his persona as being uninterested in anything more cultured than the inside of an Orlesian lady’s skirts, Hissrad can admit some curiosity.

It’s a trip and a half, not only in actual content, but in the reactions of the audience around them. The Iron Bull hasn’t gone to many theatre plays before—most nobles aren’t looking to hire mercenary bands for quick nights out, and it’s not like Seheron had much in the way of entertainment—but he knows enough about Orlais in general to know that this particular show is extremely off the beaten path when it comes to Orlesian theatre. Not just their setup, which makes use of clever tricks of light and staging, or their music, which both adds to the scenes themselves, as well as narrates part of the characters’ points of view.

No, as the audience shows, none of it is familiar to the locals.

The writing itself, of course, is uncharacteristic. The Iron Bull doesn’t have the same sort of reverence to the Chantry as most Orlesians or Fereldans, but even he has to raise a brow at the intensity of the criticism. They’re playing with fire—somewhat literally. No higher power likes being mocked or questioned by it’s people, and he supposes the troupe is lucky they’re attempting it somewhere less likely to get you sent to re-educators.

Not to say he would be surprised to see the Chantry attempting something similar, if much more crude.

There’s a lot of contradicting signals from the actors themselves, as well. Some of them sound Dwarven, despite being much too tall to be full-blooded. At least one of them speaks with a regional Orlesian accent. Another sounds completely foreign to his ears—which should be impossible. The Iron Bull can usually figure out someone’s origins just by looking at them—he knows all possible accents and dialects by ear.

A puzzle. It isn’t often he finds one of those out in the wild.

Well, wild is relative. He’s sitting in a chair clearly made for someone with a smaller ass staring contemplatively as the main heroes have their climactic fight with the villain. With a snort, The Iron Bull reaches over and makes sure Dalish doesn’t fall out of her seat leaning too far.

“How long do you think they’ll last in Orlais?” Stitches murmurs to him once Dalish is back on her seat. Their healer is watching the stage—where the villain has started chanting, causing the crowd to shift and mutter uncomfortably—with his hands crossed over his mouth.

The Iron Bull thinks about it for a moment.

“As long as it takes for the Chantry to re-establish themselves, more than likely. They’re a little too scattered and weak to spend resources on something like a heretical theatre troupe. Fuck, they’re barely trying to deal with the Inquisition.”

“Think we can steal some of them?” Stitches asks with a grin, turning his head minutely. “Might not be any good at fighting, but the camp could use this sort of entertainment. They could recreate our best battles.”

The Iron Bull snorts. And then eyes the actors a little more consideringly.

None of them have the build or stance for fighting—if anything, they look like a bunch of nobles who have fallen on hard times, only starting to lose some of that healthy weight that only the pampered elite can afford. They don’t stand like escaped mages either, the staff work in the play is very much an act.

And yet, The Iron Bull knows more than anyone how dangerous a good actor can be.

He used to go by the name Hissrad, after all. And what’s an actor but a very good liar?

“Maker have mercy,” The villain, Mother Frollo utters, voice echoing, before falling.

The curtains close.

Dalish hops up, pulling Skinner up with her, cheering uproariously, and applause follows from the rest of the audience after.

“Bravo! _Bravo_!” Dalish shouts, and The Iron Bull can’t quite stifle the fond grin he gets at the sight.

“Going soft, Chief?” Stitches asks at his side from where he’s clapping too, leaned back in his seat.

The Iron Bull gives him a look that implies morning drills. Before sunrise morning drills. Stitches is too grizzled to take the bait, though.

The Iron Bull stands, rolling a shoulder and feeling his left knee protest a little at the motion.

“What say we meet these _Les Étrangers_ , one band to another?”

The Chargers whoop in agreement around him, and The Iron Bull settles his sharp eye on the stagehands working on cleaning up for the night. Most of them look to be hired help, locals from town, but he catches a few wearing those animal masks the main actors seem to prefer.

He saunters quickly through the crowd, feeling the Chargers following at his back. It takes a moment to find the target he’d marked earlier—the Coyote mask woman who he’s spied darting backstage during the scene transitions—who appears to be helping to gather costumes and decor with two others.

He times his approach for when the others are half the stage away, far enough that she’s isolated enough to approach, but not too far that a strange Qunari man looming over her will cause her to run.

The Iron Bull raises a hand in greeting. “Hey. You a part of _Les Étrangers_?”

The woman startles from where she’s folding one of the drapes.

“Oh, wow,” she chokes out. “You are...bigger in real life.”

Suddenly, the two people she’d been working with have stepped quickly at her sides and are slapping their hands—stacked on top of each other—over her mouth.

“ _May, you can’t just talk about your romance novels like that at a real Qunari,_ ” The Draskolisk masked one hisses, sounding embarrassed.

Well. He wasn’t expecting _that_.

“So sorry, Ser,” The one on her other side, wearing a Turtle mask, says with a sigh. “Did you need something?”

The Coyote mask struggles under the hands of her friends and slaps at their arms to be released, emerging victoriously after a few curses to grin—smile a little too sharp to be anything but predatory—at The Iron Bull.

“You can romance my novel any time.”

“ _May_!”

“That’s sexual harassment! You can’t just proposition the audience—this is why you can’t keep a role on stage,” the Turtle mask sputters.

“Hah, I don’t have time to have a role on stage, do you know how many hems I have to sew week to week?” A pause. “I can make time for you, though.” She eyes his biceps consideringly.

“Right! That’s enough from you,” the Draskolisk mask says, tugging the woman away. “Time to go organise the breeches.”

“You can organize my breeches!” Coyote mask shouts in parting, getting groans from her friends.

“Again, I am so sorry, Ser,” Turtle mask repeats. “That was not appropriate of my friend.”

The Iron Bull laughs low. “I’m used to it. I was just wondering what it was like running around in a Theatre troupe? I lead a Merc band myself.”

Turtle mask hums, fiddling with the cloak in hand in thought.

“Fun. A bit dangerous with the civil war, but I wouldn’t choose anyone else to do it with,” She murmurs, before her head jerks up in focus again. “Speaking of! I know just the person you should talk to this about, leader to leader.”

She turns, cupping a hand at her face even if it doesn’t do much with the full face mask.

“ _Lilith_!” She shouts. “Also Dad!”

...Dad?

Two figures start making their way towards the group—the Templar from the play, and the villainous Chantry Mother. One of them hurries a little quicker once they see who is calling, and who is waiting for them.

“Do you think I could talk with Telahmis?” Dalish asks the Turtle mask, bouncing a bit. It’s rare for The Iron Bull to see her excited about anything, but he’s not surprised. She’s always been interested in seeing other Dalish outside of clans, and comparing notes.

“Oh, uh,” Turtle mask stutters, looking pleadingly towards the quickly approaching Wolf mask. “Probably?”

The Iron Bull notes the awkward way she stands, fidgeting a bit, even if he doesn’t get the sense she’s worried necessarily about the Chargers themselves. He’s gotten good at noticing when people are intimidated by their appearance, and it’s not quite that. The fact that her first instinct is to call for backup indicates something has spooked her, however.

And the fact that they’ve dragged away their more chatty member—and the one that’s already halfway seduced—just tells him they’re trying to hide something.

“Where’s the fire?” The wolf mask says, coming to a swift, and notably silent stop at her castmate’s side.

“Oh! This fine gentlemen…” Turtle mask trails off. “I’m sorry, I didn’t ask for your name, Ser?”

“The Iron Bull, and these are the Chargers,” The Iron Bull introduces, half watching the open part of Wolf’s face. Most nobles with half masks forget they don’t hide body language and the rest of their face, it might just apply here.

“The Iron Bull and his Chargers were asking about comparing notes on being a Merc band versus an Acting Troupe,” Turtle finishes. “Anyways, I should finish up with this.”

She hurries away, Wolf watching her go with a tilted head.

“Well that’s odd, from the way she called me I thought you were accosting her or something,” Wolf says contemplatively. She turns, facing him again. “Regardless, nice to meet you, The Iron Bull, Chargers. I’m _Le Loup_ , and I’m sure acting is not as interesting as fighting.”

“I wouldn’t be sure of that. We don’t normally get as big of an audience when we work, at least,” Stitches offers, causing Skinner to snort disdainfully.

“Hah, speak for yourself Stitches, I fight for audiences all the time,” The Iron Bull laughs, flexing a little and paying close attention to the Wolf mask as he does so. He doesn’t think flirting will get him anywhere here, and sure enough, her eyes barely flicker.

“Besides, one could argue the chaos of wrangling people doesn’t change, from troupe to troupe. I can’t imagine trying to get these lumps to sing on stage, at least.”

Wolf huffs a laugh. “And we recruit extras and stagehands from town to town too, so there’s definitely a learning curve. Mostly it’s keeping people on task and memorizing their lines, harder than one would think.”

Her body language is the picture of ease, one hand on her hip and slow calm breathing. Nothing there either.

Called it on actors, didn’t he?

“Speaking of! Where can I meet Telahmis?” Dalish pipes up.

Wolf turns to her, grinning.

“Well, as of current I believe she’s getting all the bells out of her hair, but I think someone wouldn’t mind bringing you over. Do you mind if I ask what clan you hail from? I know those are Dirthamen’s Vallaslin,” She asks, seeming genuinely interested.

“No clan for this one but the Chargers,” Dalish hums. “But yes, good eye. You are familiar with the Vallaslin?”

“We had to consult two clans before we were satisfied Telahmis’s depiction wasn’t offensive or disrespectful to The People,” Wolf explains, as if that’s something a human just does. “So I would hope I know at least something.”

“You were able to find two clans willing to consult?” Dalish asks, surprise evident in her voice. The Iron Bull can tell how much Skinner is holding back from replying—probably doesn’t want to have to deal with the morning training The Iron Bull would have foisted on her if she’d alienated what the group probably assumes is a potential client.

The Iron Bull never has to worry about that with Grim, at least. He glances at the back of the group and stifles his groan with more experience that he wishes he had. If the Wolf mask isn’t going to comment on Rocky inspecting their fire system on stage, he’s not going to bring it to her attention.

“It was definitely a trial, and rightfully so all things considered,” Wolf says. “And I can’t tell you from where, for reasons you likely already understand, but we found them. Now it was the getting them to talk to us without seeming like a bunch of scary Shems here to fuck with them that was the biggest issue.”

“That’s a lot of effort to go into just one show—have you written any others?” The Iron Bull asks, shifting his weight a little to adjust away from his usual flirtation. He keeps his chest open, turned towards the Wolf mask to signal approachability, arms relaxed at his side, but tones down the overt posturing.

Now that he’s looking closer, she seems a little young for it anyways. He doesn’t have as much experience playing the part of a parent, but he can handle approving mentor decently. Fade knows he’s had enough experience with the Chargers.

Wolf’s body language stays just as it was before, but he’s hoping something will loosen.

“A few, mostly co-written with my colleague, _Le Corbeau_. Oh! Antoine! Could you take my friend here to meet Esmé?” Wolf turns, waving down a blank masked stagehand and gesturing to Dalish.

“Of course, _Le Loup_ ,” The stagehand says, giving a nod that has Wolf sighing with feeling.

“Not the nodding! We have known each other for what, two weeks? We’re at thumbs up levels now aren’t we?” She asks, clutching her shirt above her heart dramatically.

“Of course, _Le Loup_ ,” The stagehand repeats, though there’s an eyeroll in that tone as he waves for Dalish to follow him.

The Iron Bull waits for the both of them to walk off before adjusting his attention again.

“Your co-writer? This wouldn’t happen to be this mysterious Dad I’ve been hearing about?”

Well, heard about once, but the second figure has disappeared at some point when they were talking, and a quick glance at the crowd doesn’t reveal them. It takes a lot for The Iron Bull to lose someone, even in a crowd. Especially when he’s keeping his one eye on them.

At his comment, he finally gets a hint of a reaction from _Le Loup_. Not a very large one, but it’s there in a twitch at the corner of the mouth, in the flicker of a finger at her side.

“That would be correct,” a voice replies from directly behind. The group twitches, The Iron Bull’s own hand itching for his axe even as he turns.

There’s no way someone could have snuck up on all of the Chargers _and_ The Iron Bull. And yet there they stand, having discarded the Chantry Mother’s garb and instead clad in a simple, dark outfit with a cloak. The Raven mask blends in with the hood, somehow appearing matte and unassuming now that the actor isn’t under the light of the stage.

“It’s a family name,” they reply to the unasked question.

“Like their father,” _Le Loup_ says very seriously.

“And his father,” _Le Corbeau_ continues, stepping through the Chargers to stop beside Le Loup.

“And his mother-in-law,” _Le Loup_ hums, and there’s a real emotion. A half grinning show of teeth, though not malicious, or notably, hungry like their friend.

Nothing about these two even suggests blood family relation, from Corbeau’s minimal visible age difference with Loup, to the very different colors of their hair, and finally their body shape.

The way they stand together shows familiarity that goes past just colleagues, however. The sort of familiarity that hints at adversity fought together.

“Very traditional family,” he quips. “What do they think of what you’ve created here?”

“Ah.” Corbeau kisses the back of their teeth. “Unfortunately they are no longer with us—demons, you know. But my mother was always a patron of the arts. I’m sure she would be proud.”

Their voice isn’t particularly choked up, although The Iron Bull is having a hard time detecting any real emotion at anything they say. Their accent is perhaps the most familiar, the closest to true Orlesian, and yet still completely foreign.

“Ah, but let us not linger on unpleasant memories,” Corbeau continues before The Iron Bull can reply. “You are a mercenary band, yes? I’m sure you have many interesting stories to tell—perhaps we can exchange tales over some ale. There’s a tavern a couple doors down.”

 _Le Loup_ startles at their side, glancing over.

“...I should get back to work, anyways,” she offers reluctantly. “Before someone blows something up.”

“We’d like that,” The Iron Bull replies slowly, eyeing them. It’s obvious that they’re trying to get them away from the less experienced liars of the group, but just as same, it’s an opportunity he’s not going to turn away.

“Lead the way,” he nods to the Raven, who settles a hand on the Wolf’s shoulder for a moment before moving away.

Maybe getting a few ales in them will loosen some lips.

—

Thank god restoration magic can filter out poisons, Dad muses, glancing at Bull’s grin. There’s no other way they’re gonna outdrink him otherwise.

—

“We have the worst luck,” Kaylee muses, catching up with Frank and May. “Once was a coincidence. Twice is enemy action.”

“That’s not how the saying goes,” Frank replies, glancing around to see if they’re completely alone. The only ones nearby are a few stagehands loading carts, and Esmé talking with an excited Dalish.

“Ok, but do you really want it to happen three times?” Kaylee points out. “Like. How often does the exact same thing happen like that, with two different groups of dangerous individuals?”

“It is pretty funny that it’s like, the exact same situation. What, is Hawke going to show up next?” May laughs.

“Not funny, May. And I can’t believe you almost blew our cover,” Frank snorts. “I know you’re thirsty for the dude, but we all agreed no seducing of the inner circle.”

“He’s not in the inner circle _yet_ ,” May retorts. She looks up to wave over Max from where he’s stopped to watch Dalish chat with Telahmis.

“What’s this I heard about May trying to seduce The Iron Bull,” Max asks, jogging over, voice low.

“It was just some harmless flirting,” she says with a sigh. “I was just surprised, ok. I don’t even realise he was in the audience—heck, you would think with those horns he’d stand out in a crowd.”

“The dude is a decorated war spy,” Kaylee points out.

“Did we leave Lilith and Dad to deal with them again?” Max asks, glancing back out at the front of the stage. “Is that going to be our answer to everything?”

“Yep,” the other three echo.

“That’s not going to work everytime,” Max points out. “I mean, we’ve been using them as a buffer with everyone for a while, but it’s going to become obvious when the only ones interacting with people are those two...especially because it’s those two.”

“They are the better liars,” Frank reminds him. “Anyways, there’s nothing we can do about it now besides making sure there’s nothing left out to incriminate us.”

“I would have totally distracted Bull for us,” May points out.

“Yeah, and he would have probably gotten your family tree and social security number in return,” Kaylee snorts.

There’s a pause.

“Where’s Jay and Kyla?” Frank asks eventually.

“One of the stagehands had a mother with an illness—they went to go check if they could help out,” Max replies.

“And Jay keeps trying to say he’s _not_ a doctor,” May laughs.

“He’s the closest thing Thedas has at this point,” Kaylee says, shaking her head. “I mean, at least he’s not using leeches to balance out humours or whatever.”

“ _Monsieur L’Ours_ ,” a voice calls out as one of the stagehands runs up. “I cannot find all the bags of flour—I have counted thrice, but we are missing at least five, and they are much too big to replace, I fear we might have a thief, but I swear—”

“Woah, calm down,” Max soothes, watching the man sweat before turning to the others. “Guess I have to go handle this. Can you tell someone to show Dalish back to the front after she’s done talking with Esmé?”

“Sure,” Frank replies, and they watch as the cook heads off.

“...Anyone else want to see if we can get some stories off of Dalish?” Kaylee asks.

“Sounds like a horrible idea. Sure.” May grins.

Turns out Dalish has a lot of stories.

—

“...And then Bull broke it over his knee like it was a twig. Should have seen the noble’s face—priceless, just like that broken statue,” Dalish finishes triumphantly.

The three stage hands and Esmé applaud with laughs.

“There is no way you got paid after that,” And there is Frank, good humor in his voice and his arms crossed as the other two _Les Étrangers_ with him meld into the group with ease.

“Would you want to from a noble like that?” May hums, and behind her mask Esmé can see she’s scanning Esmé’s hair. “Someone left in a bell, who helped you get them out, hun?”

Esmé blinks, hands coming up to pat her hair as May reaches over with deft fingers, grumbling.

“No one here knows what to do with textured hair, it’s a tragedy,” May says to herself, and Esmé hears faint jingling behind her head.

“I’m sure you have more stories,” The stagehand, Hanon, says, his white featureless mask pulled up to sit at the top of his head, grin clear.

“Oh sure, but I’m more interested in what you have to offer,” Dalish says, eyes turning to the three _Les Étrangers_. “You left awfully quickly at the sight of the chief.”

Left quickly? Esmé tries to turn her head to face them but gently gets her head moved back straight, hands behind her quick and certain.

“Not of my own will,” May says pointedly, getting a smack to her shoulder for her trouble from Kaylee.

“We do not sexually harass people we don’t know,” Kaylee says severely.

“Is it sexual harassment if he was returning it?” May asks, only to get hit again and stick out her tongue.

“May here has no filter, we thought it best to avoid secondhand mortification,” Frank explains to Dalish, arms crossed. “We’ve learned our lesson.”

“It was only one time!” May argues. “And the farmer asked for it.”

“He was not asking to get his entire hygiene routine verbally torn apart, May, don’t even,” Kaylee says with a sigh. “And that was _not_ the only time.”

“So you actors do have stories to tell! Come on, at least let me know how you joined your troupe,” Dalish asks, and Esmé pretends she too isn’t interested in this information. The inception of _Les Étrangers_ has never been brought up around her, and any questions were quickly met with vague statements and shrugs.

“Wasn’t joining, more like forming together,” May says cheerfully. “It was this or stay in the _Hinterlands_.”

“Ferelden?” One of the other stagehands asks, northern Orlaisian accent thick. “You are all Fereldens?”

“Absolutely not, we don’t like cheese enough,” Frank says, deadpan. “And I don’t put salt in my food and call it spicy.”

“Northerners, then?” Esmé asks, still feeling May fiddling with her dreads.

“Some of us,” May says. “Some southern. Some from _very_ far west.”

“What she means is we’ve never been from one place,” Kaylee interjects. “Doesn’t matter anyways, we’re together now.”

That…

Clears nothing up. Esmé only has even more questions. Why do these ones only ever create more of them?

“Fair enough,” Dalish says, arms crossed and stance casual. “But that says nothing on why you chose to form a theatre troupe.”

Very true.

“Enough of us had experience in it that it just made sense?” May says, finally backing away from Esmé’s hair and holding up at least five bells in her face. “Whoever helped you last needs more practice or I’m doing it next time.”

Esmé flushes, because she hadn’t thought to get help getting them out and most certainly left those in herself.

“Right, will do,” Esmé says.

“That _Le Loup_ is one of them, correct? And this Dad?” Dalish asks. “They’re your leaders.”

It would make sense for the two of them to have lots of previous experience, wouldn’t it?

“Kaylee here has been performing with instruments for a long time as well,” May says, patting said woman’s shoulder with a visible grin.

“Oh?” Dalish asks, turning to the turtle mask wearing woman.

“Years of practice,” Kaylee demures, looking flustered.

“Where did you learn? I’ve always wanted to pick something up, but instruments are so expensive,” Hanon sighs.

“Oh...here and there,” Kaylee chuckles nervously.

Esmé glances over and catches Dalish’s eye. That for sure does not answer any of their questions.

“And your previous shows?” Dalish asks slowly, one brow raised.

“Haha, well—” May starts, only for Frank to nudge her, causing her mouth to snap shut.

There’s an awkward pause, the stagehands blinking a little in confusion, as the troupe members smile stiffly.

“...Right,” Dalish eventually drawls off. “What about the current show? Any interesting stories there?”

“Well I mean there was the time Max accidentally spilled a whole pot of chilly on a Templar—”

The story sounds like they might actually get somewhere, even if it’s not necessarily a straight answer. But the three don’t seem as tense, and none of them try to stop the other from speaking. It even starts out in a way that encourages the listeners to laugh along.

And then there’s a shout from further in the courtyard.

“ _Shitshitshitshit_ —!” Can be heard from a very familiar voice, and when Esmé turns she sees a sprinting Jay and Kyla coming in hot towards them.

“Where’s Dad and Lilith?” Kyla asks when she spots them, skidding to a stop and looking frazzled with her cloth mask falling down and her glasses clouded.

“Nearby?” Frank says but it’s more like a question. “I’ll look. What’s the problem?”

“Hogwarts,” Jay says, and at the strange word all three of the main troupe are suddenly on high alert. A codeword?

“Where and with who?” Kaylee asks as Frank runs off, calling for Dad and Lilith.

“A few Chevaliers were fucking with my patient,” Jay says, and upon closer inspection his gloves look almost… frosted?

“That’ll do it,” May says. “Kaylee, escort our dear friend to her dear friends, I’ll preemptively get to Max on pack up.”

May strides away, Kaylee waving Dalish along and out of the main encampment.

“So, how’s your night going?” Jay asks Esmé as he, Kyla and her are the only ones left standing. He sounds very much like he is attempting to distract himself.

“...It is well? Are you alright? Should I be worried?” Esmé asks, looking over the two _Les Étrangers_ , hands shaking and eyes sharp on the way they came.

“ _Mildly_ ,” Kyla says, before starting to laugh a smidge hysterically.

Then, there is Lilith, only her black mask in place as she slides to a stop in front of them, eyes scanning them swiftly.

“Esmé, I ask you to leave now if you wish plausible deniability about what I assume are various illegal acts,” Lilith says, turning to her with seriousness.

_...Various illegal acts??_

And yet some part of her sours because she _knew_ these humans were not what they seemed! Now this may not be how she expected to spend her evening, someone in the center of what seems to be a mystery novella never does, but she is up for the challenge!

“I stand with you, _Le Loup_ ,” Esmé says with what bravado she can call to her chest.

Lilith blinks, once, then twice.

“Huh. Well, alright then. Jay, did you kill the Chevalier cleanly or is there ice everywhere?”

Esmé chokes on air.

Alright, not the plot twist she was expecting, but she can take this in stride.

Wait, ice?

“You are an apostate?” Esmé asks, looking at the lanky man in a new light, wide eyed.

“Allegedly,” Jay says, with a grimace in his voice. “And there’s no ice left if that’s what you’re asking, just a set of very suspicious sunken corpses in the pier.”

“May I ask how you got the corpses to the pier?” Lilith asks.

“No.”

“Fair enough.”

“That is not fair enough?” Esmé says, but it falls on deaf ears.

—

The Iron Bull spends an enjoyable night drinking and swapping stories with _Le Corbeau_ , who is as entertaining of a liar drunk as they are sober. He doesn’t learn much new, unfortunately, besides some truly hilarious stories of the troupe from when they were starting out.

He particularly enjoyed the one where _Le Corbeau_ attempted to convince the group to buy a war goat instead of a draft horse for the caravan, which devolved into a week long cold war when the others in turn suggested even more unsuitable animals, eventually ending when one of them snuck in a wolf pup into a tent and woke up with soiled bedrolls.

There’s no sign of anything amiss that night, although he marks down the swift departure of the caravan the next day.

And then, as the Chargers are setting off themselves—

“The bodies were never found?” he asks the gossipy barmaid as she leans in close to whisper in his ear.

“No! It is the strangest thing, truly. Just a pool of blood in one of the alleys, and a discarded sword. Some are saying they were taken by demons,” she hisses. “But that is not the most interesting part.”

“Oh?” he prompts, settling a hand on her arm. Her eyes glance quickly at the barkeep on the other side of the room—a relative, he thinks.

“Phillip swears he saw them swagger into Miss Cooper’s house—she’s, ah, the local seamstress for the elves. And well. Both of them were well known as. Hmm. I suppose you would call them Rabbit Hunters? But Miss Cooper has been ill for weeks, and she wouldn’t have been strong enough to fight them off, and yet she’s perfectly healthy now.”

He raises a brow.

“That is pretty interesting,” he agrees. “Although I could think of something a little more interesting.”

He lets his eyes settle on her waist pointedly, causing her to laugh and push off with a blush. He lets her go with the appropriate amount of disappointment and waits until she’s out of earshot before eyeing the Chargers over his mug.

“Dalish—you said there was a commotion at the stage before you left?”

“Two of the troupe came running up looking for their leaders,” Dalish says, leaned into Skinner’s side and tapping her chin. “Said a codeword and had them all running. Hogwash or something like it?”

Her eyes sharpen, meeting his single eye.

“Speaking of, one of them mentioned Chevaliers fucking with his patient. Was rushed away before I could hear more.”

That is...incriminating.

“Interesting,” he repeats. He wonders if he looks at the towns the troupe has stopped at if he’ll see a pattern of disappearances or unsolved murders. It’s not a bad idea, using the transient nature of theatre troupe to hide kills.

What is an actor, after all, but a more elaborate Bard?

He rolls the thought around for a moment or two. On one hand, it feels like part of the mystery is solved, and yet his instincts haven’t settled yet. It doesn’t explain it all, and in some ways, it’s a bit too clean of an answer. The fact that the bodies haven’t been found seems important, somehow—there are ways to hide a corpse to never be found, but most of them require time the troupe wouldn't have.

He wonders for a moment if _Le Corbeau_ was distracting him on purpose, if the murders were pre planned or a crime of passion. Protecting those they consider to be under their wing? Or was this a hit paid for by the community?

“We doing anything about it?” Skinner asks, looking unconcerned with the answer. Maybe even a little satisfied with where the Chevaliers ended up.

“...Not yet,” he says finally, raising his mug in a toast.

He wants to see where this leads, anyways. And using up secrets like this so quickly is a good way to run out of arrows in your quiver when you need them. It’s always better to know the players on the scene, than to go running with your breeches hanging down because you thought you were a step ahead.

“We head to the Storm Coast, and we do our job. Hopefully Krem will have an answer from the Inquisition by then.”

And if the Inquisition does hire them, a heretical troupe of assassins is probably something they would be interested in.

“Wonder how they did it,” Stitches muses, leaning back and glancing over at the tavern.

Rocky jolts from where he’d been messing with a set of papers, hastily strewn notes on the fire system the troupe used if The Iron Bull had to guess.

“Armor,” He says, tapping the table with his knuckles.

Grim grunts in agreement, and the table collectively rolls the explanation over in their heads.

“That would solve that,” The Iron Bull acknowledges, the Chevalier would’ve had armor on and there is access to a fairly deep sea for it to sink into. But that doesn’t solve how people with builds like nobles took down two highly trained soldiers. “The rest?”

“Poison?” Dalish asks.

“Tiny knives,” Skinner counters, making a shivving motion with her hand. “There’s enough folds in those clothes to hide them.”

Poison is unlikely, too slow working unless they’ve got some of the good stuff, and too messy if they do have some of the good stuff. Knives seem closer, considering the apparent puddle of blood.

“Not enough muscle on any of them for rogue work,” Stitches says frankly. “Exception being the Wolf one, Turtle and the one you were with, Chief.”

“Were those ones accounted for?” The Iron Bull asks Dalish.

“Turtle was talking with me, and when they came running they didn’t know where Wolf was,” Dalish explains, rocking back and forth in her chair, it’s legs balanced precariously.

“Did any of them seem like mages?” he asks, following the threads in his mind. If they’re not using martial skills, or bladework, there’s not much left as an option.

Dalish thinks on it a moment.

“Not trained, I don’t think. I never noticed any staves, except the one used as a prop, and they didn’t have the twitchiness I would expect from apostates.”

“They’re a little old to be untrained, anyways, right?” Stitches asks, looking a bit unsure.

“Old, yes. Most mages develop their powers during puberty, if not before. To have grown into adulthood without some sort of training is practically unheard of—if it’s not Templars, it’s demons, or your own magic doing you in,” Dalish replies, looking grim.

“Right, that’s reassuring,” The Iron Bull snorts.

So, potentially unstable assassin mages. Just what he needs.

—

If there’s one thing Ceecee dislikes about the surface, it’s rain. Gets everywhere, and when you’re a dwarf, you always end up with mud kicked in your face by the giants everywhere. There have been times when he’s thought he would end up drowning in the muck in the cities, and lets just say, that would not be a pretty way to go.

So he can’t say he’s excited about traveling to the Storm Coast, even if part of him is curious to see this Iron Bull in person. The only upside is that at least they’re taking horses, so he’s not going to have to dig himself out of the chest high waters and mud.

Oh, and the best part besides the unending rain and mud?

“What was that, Seeker? Sorry, I couldn’t hear you over the self righteousness.”

That.

Bickering. It’s ringing in his damn ears.

It’s not as if he hates or even dislikes any of them, _on their own_ , but Solas, Cassandra, and Varric together make his head pound. Moreso Varric and Cassandra.

Then, like a beaming ray of hope and salvation, Ceecee spots the Inquisition camp in the distance.

“Thank Stone,” Ceecee hisses, edging his horse, thoughtfully dubbed Templar Crusher after a certain incident, into a gallop. Ahead he can see what seems to be Scout Harding in the gloomy, blue tinted haze, staring down the cliff the camp is settled on.

“Herald!” Cassandra calls, but Ceecee’s already off, and his tagalongs follow his lead.

“Keep up, Seeker!” Ceecee calls back, already halfway there. He’d better slow down and not fall down any of those slippery rocks he can barely see, but right now he wants to be fast. Because the faster he goes the sooner he can find places to hide away from his new colleagues in arms.

Ceecee pulls to a stop, murmuring praises to Templar Crusher and sliding off his back, unfortunately into the muddy ground below.

Oh he can already tell he’s gonna be soaked in mud by the end of today.

He’s striding up to Harding, because he’d recognize those freckles anywhere, as the others pull to a stop by his horse, Cassandra grumbling and Solas saying something in a placid tone back that implies it was meant to make everyone else un-placid.

“Harding!” Ceecee says in greeting, holding out a hand. She grins, taking it and shaking. The leather of their gloves squelches in the rain.

“Herald. I see you’re cheerful today.” Harding drops his hand and finally, Ceecee’s near some amicable company.

“If we fake something long enough it’ll become true!” Ceecee says, grin strained. “I have a headache like Titans tearing the earth and if I hear one more backhanded snipe I’ll snap!”

“Noted, Cadash,” Varric says, and from the corner of his eye Ceecee can see he’s got his hands up in surrender.

Hopefully noted enough that he doesn’t try to piss off any of his companions for another hour or so. Just an hour. That’s all Ceecee needs.

“Right, well, I’ll give you the rundown on the Storm Coast, then,” Harding says, her voice notably quieter, mindful of his head. “A dragon’s been spotted west of our position, farther up the coast. The mercenary band you intend on meeting are actually camped nearby, below this cliff.”

Harding then sighs.

“Right, and finally, we’ve been having some trouble with a group of mercenaries besides the Chargers. The Blades of Hessarian. They’ve been harassing what few locals are nearby, attacking merchants on their way to Jader and generally being a deadly nuisance,” She says, shaking her head. “I sent some scouts to meet with them, negotiate, but they haven’t been back from the rendezvous point in two days, and I’m wary of spending more of my men on a hostile location.”

Ceecee nods, his fake grin having dropped.

“Mark it on my map. I’ll see what I can do.”

Harding nods and gestures over to one of the covered awnings, where someone has set up a table and pinned a map down with daggers. He eyes it and has to huff out a laugh—scouts, man.

“Where first?” Varric asks, as the both of them peer down at the table—short enough for once for dwarven heights—in contemplation.

“The Chargers, I think. If all goes well we can hire them to help deal with the mercenary problem.” And, if it doesn’t go well, they can use them as a distraction to get around the dragon that’s supposed to be nearby.

“Right,” Ceecee snaps, stretching out a bit. “Let’s move out in ten. Warm up, get some liquids in—we’ll probably be looking at at least one fight coming up.”

“Of course, Herald,” Cassandra nods, ignoring his wince at the title.

He shares a look with Varric and Solas once her back is turned. _Humans_.

He hefts his warhammer back into its holster and prepares himself to trudge out back into the rain, on foot, over rough terrain. These Chargers better be worth it. He might end up having to lodge a complaint—the type that comes with some liberal head bashing—if they don’t .

For one long moment he imagines what the party dynamic would have been if he had invited Vivienne instead of Solas for this trip, and has to hastily muffle his snort before the others hear it. At least that image will keep him warm during the upcoming hike.

As they move through the sparse forest, following the markings the scouts have left behind, he can’t help but wonder what sort of mercenary band would make _this_ their home base. He’s heard that Fereldens are masochistic, but it seems like there has to be some limit to that sort of stubbornness.

At least the Chargers are only here for a job, and hopefully after they’re recruited, Ceecee won’t have to come back ever again.

On the other hand, why Venatori would want to dock on some no-name beach in the Storm Coast is a mystery as well. There’s nothing here. Maybe that’s the point—but then again, even smugglers need customers.

They break through the forest line and catch a glimpse of the water finally, the giant waves crashing onto an already drenched beach. The sound of fighting can barely be heard over the water, but the flashes of magic are obvious enough to make up for it.

“Well, let’s not let them have all the fun,” Ceecee yells into the wind, running as fast as his legs will carry him over the thick mud.

Cassandra overtakes him, of course, having the advantage of legs longer than a nug’s ear.

He slips down the beach’s bank, using the momentum to crash into one of the Venatoris’ legs with the full might of his hammer swing behind him. The poor bastard goes down hard, and a dagger in the throat means he stays down.

The fight immediately gets messy, as if it wasn’t already, as blood and worse liquids mix with the sodden sand. He keeps track of the party and the Chargers offhandedly, taking the time to try and pin down their fighting style and how well they mesh with a completely new group of allies.

They’re impressive, he has to admit. Well trained, and well trusting of their commander, following his cues without hesitation in the melee. He uses the butt of his hammer to trip one of the mages and watches as the Qunari smoothly brings his axe down on his back.

“Lovely day for a stroll,” he says, after glancing around to check if there’s any more combatants alive.

“You must be the Herald,” The Iron Bull replies in turn, a cocky grin on his lips.

“So they say,” Ceecee agrees, grinning back. The height difference is really ridiculous now—he's basically staring up at the sky, his neck is so tilted back.

There’s a bit of quipping back and forth, some humorous banter to lighten the groups’ levels of battle-fever, and Ceecee finds himself amused by the lieutenant’s sass. Says good things if a subordinate can mouth off like that.

“You don’t want to keep some of them alive?” Ceecee asks, once their little duo act finishes up. “Did we even figure out what they were doing here?”

“Naw, none of these poor bastards will know anything important—the Venatori don’t like sharing information with its lower members,” The Iron Bull replies, eyes sharpening in interest. “I see you’re more than a pretty face.”

“And you’re more than a nice set of horns,” Ceecee retorts.

The both of them eye each other up for a moment or two, like to like.

“Well, there’s one more thing you should know. Might make you angry, maybe not,” The Iron Bull eventually offers, settling more solidly on the stump he’s using as a chair.

Ceecee moves his hand away from his dagger belt in return. The following doesn’t surprise him overly, if he’s being honest. Something about Leliana’s reaction to the Charger’s offer, and the little Ceecee had seen of The Iron Bull’s fighting had already given him an inkling.

“Won’t be a problem,” he eventually confirms, ignoring Cassandra’s huff of distrust at his back.

“Perfect.” The Iron Bull’s eye crinkles in satisfaction. The Chargers cheer, looking as pleased as punch to be hired on, with a frankly ridiculous contract. He kinda wants to be in the room while those details are hammered out, but then again, he enjoys having his limbs intact, and Leliana could eat him for breakfast.

“Come on, let's get back to dry ground,” Ceecee says once the cheering dies down.

Now to make it all the way back up the hill and through the boggy forest.

—

The subsequent adventure—finding the missing scouts, the crest of mercy, challenging the mercenaries to single combat, winning—passes in a blur, never giving him enough time to fully dry off his socks. He feels rusted through, and spends the nights they camp obsessively cleaning and polishing his knives.

The last thing he wants is to have to buy new ones because they got a little wet.

And maybe, if his eyes stray to the small Cadash crest on the hilts one too many times, an ache in his chest, that’s his business.

“Hellfire, dark fire,” One of the scouts hum nearby, and Ceecee looks up with a blink.

“You’ve seen the Hunchback of Notre Dame?” Ceecee asks the woman, quickly putting away his knives.

The scout blinks, wide eyed in an instant. “Ah, yes. I was sent to Orlais for a week or so and caught one of _Les Éstrangers’_ shows. You’ve seen them, Herald?”

“Seen them?” Varric asks with a snort nearby, where he’s facilitating a particularly bloody game of Wicked Grace. “Our holy Herald is a bonafide fanboy. Couldn’t stop talking about it for the rest of our way back to Haven.”

If Ceecee were anyone else, that would embarrass him.

As is, Ceecee has never had shame and never will.

“They created a theatrical masterpiece and I’ll die on my hill, Tethras,” Ceecee says simply.

“The Chargers and I got a glimpse of one of their shows too,” Iron Bull pipes up. “Was actually right before we made our way here. You that much of a fan?”

“I have never seen anyone create so much chaos in three hours as they have,” Ceecee says, grinning. “And their particular brand of acting is nothing I’ve seen before.”

“They’re certainly an interesting group,” Iron Bull agrees. “Takes a lot of nerve to be that critical in the Chantry’s own backyard.”

“Honestly surprised they were able to keep it going for more than one show,” Varric snorts. “I was half expecting them to put on a ‘corrected’ version once the backlash hit.”

“Oh, I’m not sure about that,” Iron Bull muses, glancing over at the group over the fire. “From what I saw, they seemed pretty determined.”

“Determined? I would say heretical,” Cassandra mutters, lips pursed.

“Oh, don’t even start,” Ceecee snorts, rolling his eyes. “You loved it. Weren’t you the one that kept gushing over the romance with the Templar?”

“I—Well—It was just, a better representation of what the Templar order should be, than their horrendous mockery of the Chant—” she sputters, colour filling out her cheeks.

“Has the order made any comments on the story yet?” Iron Bull asks. “Seems like something they would have an opinion on.”

Ceecee glances over at Cassandra as she pulls herself together, hesitating with words still on her tongue.

“Well...no. The order has not been the same, since the Conclave. We still don’t know what the Lord Seeker has planned, and with the order succeeding from the Chantry—” She shakes her head.

“And the Chantry is already in shambles, so they don’t have the resources right now to do much about a traveling theatre troupe,” Ceecee continues for her.

“Huh. Lucky for them,” Iron Bull muses.

“There are those that are saying _Les Étrangers_ are in fact being paid by one of Empress Celene’s rivals,” Solas says as he joins them at the fire. “The parallel between the story’s Chantry Mother and the Dalish character, and the rumours of her elven lover, are quite marked.”

“Empress Celene—you mean when she burned down the alienages? Oof, now that you mention it, the play did have a lot of fire imagery,” Ceecee replies, blinking.

“It would make as much sense as anything else,” Varric muses. “They did seem pretty slippery.”

“Slippery?” Iron Bull asks, tilting his head. “How so?”

“Oh, we got to chat with them after the show. Nice enough folk, but the kind that doesn’t say much of anything, you know?” Ceecee answers.

“Secretive,” Cassandra grunts.

“Had a drink with one of their leaders, gotta agree on them being secretive,” Iron Bull says. “Gotta wonder if it has to do with their business practice or if they’ve got something to really hide.”

Ceecee thinks it over.

For one thing, he’s been in a smuggling, cutthroat crime family from birth. He knows the types that have something less than lawful to hide, the types that are more inclined to it too. Sharp eyes and metal forged smiles.

They seemed a bit too genuinely anti-chantry to be faking it for money, but they could’ve just the same been picked _for_ their controversial beliefs.

“Maybe,” Ceecee says finally. “That, or they just don’t like other people sticking their noses in their business. Fair, all things considered.”

Iron Bull nods. “True enough.”

The conversation drifts away, to other topics and people, and Ceecee huddles closer to the fire as the words wash over him. There is a part of him that hopes that for once, this new diversion of theirs isn’t going to end up part of the wider conspiracy that’s still slowly uncovering in front of his eyes. It would be nice if _Les Étrangers_ were as they seem—it’s a nice thought, to think that there’s people out there just living their lives as best they can, even as the sky falls down.

A nice thought, but not necessarily one he trusts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Reavv here- 
> 
> Thank you for reading what we've created so far! This is extremely self-indulgent, for a lot of reasons, and both of us are really happy to see that it's still interesting to those outside the server (you know who you are). 
> 
> The server you ask? Well, the idea of this fic came from TheOneKrafter's writing server (join [ here ](https://discord.gg/VqhtwaR)), and the troupe members are all regulars there. Come hang out! 
> 
> Also, as my regular readers will know, I have a personal writing server too ([ here](https://discord.gg/cun3KPZ)) so join that one too if you want!


	3. The Cliff before the Sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so the plot thickened, and hopefully their coin purses!
> 
> Alternatively:
> 
> “things keep happening, and they dont stop happening, and oh my god please stop happening”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unedited. Because 10k is A LOT to edit. 
> 
> -TheOneKrafter

“How did he even find us?” Kaylee murmurs in bewilderment, holding the paper out for the others to see. 

“A wonderful question!” Lilith hums, nervously. “The better question is  _ why _ a man with a spy network and Leliana looking over his shoulder is trying to get into contact with us.”

“Is it really such a surprise?” Dad asks from their position slumped in the corner. They appear to be carving something with a dagger, but the dim lighting of the camp makes it hard to make out. 

“Well it’s certainly not a comfortable thought,” Kyla replies, crossing her arms. 

“Speaking of, how are you and Jay holding up?” Lilith asks, reaching over and laying a hand on Kyla’s arm, pointedly slow enough to be stopped. 

“I’m not a doctor, I didn’t take any vows not to kill someone,” Jay says, voice drier than usual. 

“So?” Lilith asks, huffing. “If you need to talk about it, we’re here. Talking about your feelings can help you work through them.”

Jay makes a strained face that implies he  _ does not  _ want to talk about this right now. “Back to the point, Dwarven authors?” He says, half pleading. 

Lilith backs off immediately. 

“I think if we treat Varric properly—assume he knows more than we think he does, but just as much isn’t going to do anything about it unless we endanger the people he cares about—then we’ll be fine. It’s the other competing spymasters in our lives that I’m worried about,” Dad points out. 

“Competing with who, exactly?” Max asks. 

“With Padre, of course,” Lilith snorts. 

“What does the letter say exactly?” Frank interrupts, before the group can get sidetracked by the possibility of Dad having a spy empire, again. 

Kaylee lifts the paper up again to read. 

_ Greetings  _ _ Étrangers, _

_ I hope your travels are going well, and that the show is continuing to bring shock and awe in equal measure to the common folk. _

_ We did not have time to talk in depth when we met, an oversight I am now attempting to address. As you probably know, I have more than a few connections in the writer’s guild, being one of their more prominent members. It occurred to me that, although a magical experience and enchanting to watch, Notre-Dame has no written equivalent. I checked.  _

_ It can be hard to break into the market without any pre-existing connections. It would be a shame if the story of Notre-Dame ends up restricted to the few shows one troupe can manage. And, pardon my bluntness, but books are easier to hide and spread faster.  _

_ If you are interested, I would like to introduce you to my publisher, for a reasonable price. Through them, you wouldn’t have to worry about handling the writer’s guild, or censorship from the print houses. They can also handle the more tedious aspects of book distribution and networking. _

_ Write back if it interests you, or even if you have any more interesting stories you don’t mind sharing. I know the Inquisitor would be glad to hear from you. _

_ To a hopeful partnership, _

_ Varric Tethras, Author.  _

The group sits in silence. 

Then,  _ noise _ . 

“What the hell did we—!”

“I can’t believe Varric Tethras is offering connections to us—!”

“Sweet baby Jesus.”

Dad regains order with the experience and temperament of someone who’s been at this for too long. 

**“Quiet!”** They shout, and all heads snap to them. 

“Right, so, let’s work through that again,” Dad grumbles, taking the letter and rereading it, trying to fully take in the words and any hidden meanings. 

“Does it describe this price?” Frank asks, tapping his chin. 

“Nope,” Kaylee says, visibly biting her cheek. For once the group is without their black masks, if only because they know for certain they’re not being watched or listened to. Complete privacy. 

“Varric is a businessman,” Lilith says, plopping down onto a log by the fire and bouncing her leg, flexing her hands. “Whatever he sees, it’s likely because we look profitable and he has things to gain. This is a big favor in a world where censorship is a given and few get access to publishing houses without previous affluence.”

“I’m in favor!” May declares, waving a hand from where she’s been crocheting, laid down on a mat. “More access to the Inner Circle.”

“I want to see the price first,” Max says. “But if it’s doable, I don’t see why not. We should get the publishing rights to Notre Dame before someone else does.”

There’s murmurs of agreement at that. 

“I mean technically it’s not even our story,” Jay points out. “We’re kinda frauds if you think about it.” 

“Yeah, but fuck Disney,” Dad pipes up. 

There’s another vague noise of agreement from the others. 

“It would also give us another revenue stream for our other projects,” Dad continues. 

“More pay for the workers,” Max agrees. “More supplies. Better ingredients. I still say we should open up that coop farm and introduce some actual spice to Orlais.” 

“Better instruments, more books, being able to set up actual schools in places instead of the budget study halls,” Kaylee continues. 

“Better sanitation and medical infrastructure,” Jay muses. “If we have more time for it, setting up my experiments in an actual lab would make things so much easier.” 

“We send a reply acknowledging the offer but asking for terms before accepting,” Lilith says. “Knowing Varric, they’re probably not unreasonable, even if he doesn’t really know us well. If we take issue we barter further and then decide. Any disagreement?”

“You should’ve gone to law school,” Frank says eyeing her. “No disagreement here.”

“My mother would have agreed with you,” Lilith says, words dipped in dread. “Why do people keep saying that?”

“I agree,” May says without hesitation. 

“I don’t disagree,” Max says, fiddling with a smooth stone that will likely have runes on it in the next thirty minutes. 

Kaylee nods. “I’m glad we’re all in this together. I think if one of us were stranded here alone we’d have been fucked.”

“Mood,” Kyla grumbles. “And also no disagreement here.”

“It’s settled then,” Dad says, folding the letter crisply and picking up their dagger again. “Let’s do it later. When we collectively have more brain power.”

The group mumbles their agreement and starts drifting apart to do their own thing again. They’re in the middle of traveling to the next town, so there’s a lot to keep them occupied. Some of which, it wouldn’t be hard to imagine, is done more enthusiastically than needed just to keep their minds off of the stress of their situations. 

May has made twelve hats this week. She just finished a whole scarf. 

Max has several stones piled next to where he sits, some faintly glowing with engraved symbols, some not, some looking like they got a bit singed. 

Kyla and Jay talk in a hushed tone about Dead by Daylight, murmured strategies they’ll never get to use. It deviates, sometimes, to things like germ theory, but mostly video games. 

Kaylee is writing sheets and sheets of music from memory, Violin at her side to test notes, scrunch up her face, and scribble things out and rewrite them. 

Dad, as previously mentioned, is whittling. It’s anyone’s guess  _ what _ is being whittled, but the point is probably the familiar movements, not the end product. 

Lilith is writing. Paper isn’t cheap, but they’re a theatre troupe, so they need it anyways. Currently it’s the plots of a few different pieces of media, and she’s definitely doodling Sailor Moon on the edges of the paper, but it’s somewhat productive. 

Frank is drawing fanart. He will admit it to anyone who asks. Someone needs to do god’s work in this hellish plane and if he must he will. It’s not for Dragon Age, the entire group would burn the paper to smithereens on sight, but Harry Potter is safe. 

No one can judge his shitty OCs here. 

So all in all, they’re coping. Mostly. 

—

“What’s that?” Ceecee asks, glancing over at where Varric is glaring down at a letter in good natured frustration. “More problems with the Carta?”

“Thank the Maker, no. I’m trying to hammer out a deal with your favourite theater troupe,” Varric replies, aggressively scratching out something on a different piece of paper. 

“My favourite—oh! You mean  _ Les  _ _ Étrangers?  _ Wait, you’ve been writing letters to them and haven’t told me?” 

Varric looks up and arches a brow. 

“You know, maybe because I had a feeling you would end up agreeing to any deal if it meant you got to see another show. And they’re showing to be cutthroat enough that they would absolutely take advantage of that.” 

Ceecee slumps down into the chair across from him, briskly rubbing his arms and inching a little closer to the fire. He’s glad that they finally have a defensible base, but Skyhold is unreasonably cold. 

“What are they asking for?” he asks. 

“What aren’t they asking for, really. Creative control of the written product—doable, and not something I’m going to argue over—accreditation with the guild so that they can distribute to official book sellers, also easy enough. With just that I would be willing to let them bargain me down to the price they’re asking.” 

Varric lets the paper fall back onto the table and rubs his eyes. 

“That’s not all, then? That seems reasonable,” Ceecee points out, brow raised. It’s not often that Varric has any business troubles, although he did just have that whole issue with the fake novels…

“They want access to the guild’s libraries, despite not being members of the usual parties—do you know how hard it is to get into Val Royeaux’s  _ Bibliothèque _ ? Usually only Chantry scholars, senior mages, and senior guild members have access. Not to mention they’re asking for connections with accredited scholars and translators. I’m not even sure why they’re asking for that—to try and publish in Rivaine, maybe?” 

Ceecee, who is biased, wants to disagree on the assumption he’d agree to that. 

He tries not to lie to himself as a standard, though. And with the Inquisition’s connections being solidified now that they have a castle to fall back on, he could probably pull it off. 

“That’s a hard bargain,” Ceecee says, nodding solemnly like he knows anything about the apparently cutthroat inner workings of writers guilds and libraries before this. “Can you even do it?”

Varric looks offended at the suggestion. 

“Can I— Of course I can do it,” Varric huffs, snatching his quill back up and writing again with a new fire. “ _ Can you do it _ , he asks. I’m Varric Tethras. But I’m drawing the line at the price they’re asking, this is worth at  _ least _ twenty Sovereigns, I’m not taking any less!”

Ceecee watches the man grumble to himself, repeating “ _ Can you do it? _ ” to himself every once and awhile and then scoffing. 

It seems, Ceecee just found a new button to push to make Varric do new and interesting things!

“I need to send a few more letters,” Varric says, sitting up suddenly and starting to wave Ceecee away. “Shoo, your Inquisitive-ness, I need more ink. And some of that tea Chuckles is always complaining about.”

“Fine fine, I’m going!” Ceecee says, hands up and stepping away. “Stone, they really got under your skin, huh?”

Varric is walking towards the Roundetta, presumably to commandeer tea and ink both from their local apostate. “On the contrary, I haven’t been this entertained in at least a year!” He shouts behind his back. “Write them anything before I’ve finished negotiations and Bianca meets your foot!”

Ceecee laughs, and pretends he doesn’t think the threat is real. The glint in Varric’s eyes spoke of years in the business and a new shiny thing to focus on, and Ceecee wouldn’t be a Cadash if he didn’t know when to recognize it and back off. 

Wait. 

“The fighting blighted Magisters wasn’t entertaining?” Ceecee asks the air, staring at the now closed door. “This is almost hurtful.”

Hm. Well, when in doubt and feeling down, get drunk with Iron Bull and play a game of how much information he can get out of you. 

Ceecee turns on his heel and walks out of the Main Hall, but not before memorizing the address Varric’s letter was going to be sent to. 

Hey, he respects Varric’s claim, but that doesn’t mean he can’t be prepared for later. 

—

Sera leans against the wall of the old barn, smelling hay and nighttime, moonlight streaming through the little holes in the roof. 

She hears a noise. 

Swiftly she’s already got an arrow nocked, pointed at the source with one lifted eyebrow. 

“Ah! It’s just me, Sera, damn,” The noisemaker, that is apparently also Jenny Thomas, hisses. 

Sera lets out a breath, putting her bow and arrow away as quickly as they were drawn. 

“Shit, you scared me, asshat,” Sera huffs, mock glaring at the farmhand. Or, well, currently a farmhand. Last month he was running a bar in Orlais. The month before it was… Chantry brother? She can’t remember. 

“Yeah yeah, I’m not the one with all the pointy sticks,” Thomas says, waving a mock threatening fist at her. “Heard you’re pointing pointy sticks at bigger things than me these days, though.”

“Someone has to, bigger things hurt more little people.”

Thomas stares for a moment, but nods. 

“You’re out of the loop though, I bet. After Haven the few people around thought you were dead.  _ That _ would’ve been shitty,” Thomas says, leaning against the wall beside her heavily. 

“Was right shit anyways,” Sera snorts. “All those weird red lyrium bastards, and then coryphishits, and all that.” 

“Heard the Inquisitor died and came back alive miraculously,” Thomas says leadingly, to which Sera has to snort again. 

“Lucky as all that, yeah. What else being said?” 

They spend the next few minutes catching up, exchanging gossip and rumours. It gives her a bit more of an understanding of how exactly the Inquisition is being received by the common folk, and for the most part it’s nothing too surprising. People want to have hope, right now, and the fact that the Inquisition is actually having an impact on things—unlike anyone else right now—is giving them that. 

“...and of course there’s still the uproar in Orlais, but I hear some of the Mothers are getting distracted by that heretical play that’s going around, so you folk are probably in the clear for now. Heard from a Jenny that one of them is getting frustrated enough they’re talking to some bards—”

“Wait, go back. Heretical whatsit now?” 

Thomas gives Sera an incredulous look. 

“You’ve been that out of the loop? Les Étrangers, a wandering theatre troupe. They only employ  _ Nous Autres _ , and their debut show kills off a power high Mother with a Dalish fetish,” Thomas explains, leaning on closer with each word, happy to be the one to share this bit of gossip. 

“A  _ what? _ ” Sera asks, letting out a cackle. “And they’re still alive?”

Thomas grins. 

“More than alive, thriving from what I hear. The Civil War, Mage Rebellion, and the disruption in the Chantry? Perfect storm for people like them to slip through the cracks. Though, like I said before, at least one Mother is already thinking of rectifying it.”

“That’s some real hard balls. Metal, at least.” She pauses. “Is it any good?” 

“Eh. Depends who you ask. It’s supposedly a real spectacle, with some really good music. But it’s also a bit hard to swallow to some. I haven’t been lucky enough to see it,” he says, scratching at his nose. 

She scrunches up her own nose in thought. 

“And they have a Dalish character? Is it, ech, elfy-like? Didn’t think the Dalish liked theater much.” 

He shrugs. 

“Not sure I can speak to it’s Dalish-ness, but the city elves seem to like it. Although I’m sure it doesn’t help them in the eyes of the Chantry—heck, it’s bad enough that one of the main characters is a mage.” 

“Wha—fuck, really? Elves  _ and _ mages? Gotta be some real knocked in the head folk,” she replies, shuddering. Why anyone would want to watch a play with mages and elves in it, she doesn’t know, even if it does make fun of the big folk. Not that Chantry Mothers are really big folk, not in the same way nobles are. 

Thomas hums. “Knock in the head or not, they’re stirring the pot. And it’s making some more bold.”

Sera lifts her eyebrows. 

“Who bold?”

Thomas glances around the barn, even if they’re alone and in the middle of a backwater in Ferelden, some habits should stay habits. 

“ _ Some _ Jennies are… talking. More recruits. More…  _ humbling _ the big bits. If a troupe can criticize the Chantry in Orlais in the open, and from what I hear, the Empress too, then—” 

Sera cuts him off, hopping from where she was leaned against the wall to fully face him, eyes wide. 

“Forget them,  **_you’re_ ** knocked in the head!” Sera hisses, waving her hands with emphasis. “That isn’t what the Jennies are for!”

Thomas straightens up, glaring now. 

“And who said you were in charge of what the Jennies were about, Sera?” Thomas asks, arms crossed. “You go running with the Inquisition, one of our best, drop off the earth three months, and forget that there isn’t a thing we’re for but to scare big people who want to hurt littler ones.”

Sera points a finger at the tall, blonde haired man. 

“ _ Scare.  _ Spook, remind that they aren’t safe from getting roughed up. Not what I think you’re saying,” Sera says, baring her teeth. 

“What do you think I’m saying, Sera?” Thomas asks. 

“I think you’re knocked in your fucking head, is what I think,” Sera says, quickly shaking her own head as if to get the thought of what the Jennies have been up to out of her mind. “You— I need to get back to the Inquisitor, Thom, fuck off until you get your brains back straight.”

“Get  _ my _ brains back straight?” Thomas asks, voice aghast. 

Sera just shakes her head again and turns away. As if the world isn’t already fucked enough as is, with all the demons and shit running about. She’s usually the first to raise a glass to anyone looking to kick the nobles where the sun doesn't shine, but she’s also smart enough to know that stuff doesn't work. That stuff isn’t the Jennies work. Pushing back too hard is just likely to end up with more dead little people. 

“Don’t fuck things up, Thom,” she spits, walking away. “Or you’ll fuck it up for all of us.” 

“Yeah? And who went and made you boss of the Jennies? All up in your fancy castle in the sky? You’re just as bad as they are, now. Don’t come crying to me when something knocks you off your high horse!” he snarls back, just as the barn doors slam shut. 

“Tch,” she spits, ignoring the startled scout as she brushes past. 

Now she really wants to see Ceecee, if only to let him get her blackout drunk and set her loose one someone who needs a little mayhem. Maybe they can test out those bee grenades. 

—

“Great deals! Fine goods!” 

Midas is a respectable seller of foods, just like his father and his father’s father. He makes a humble living in the little town of Murat, and luckily, a seasonal festival is soon going to be bringing money to him. 

“Midas!” And here comes Madame Montange, no doubt bringing the newest gossip. 

Midas grins, leaning his arms against his stall. 

“Madame Montange! What do you have to say today?” Midas asks teasingly. “Or is it a Blue Moon and you intend to buy something, Maker forbid.”

Yvon Montange huffs at him, fanning herself with her hand. 

“This is very serious, Midas! There is trouble afoot this festival and we should not stand for it!” Yvon declares in a low voice, blue eyes narrowed on his form. 

Midas, who is experienced in the woman’s antics, having known her from his childhood, only nods. “Of course, of course. And what sort of trouble?”

“There’s a group of heathens fouling our respectful neighbourhood with some sort of heretical buffoonery! There is no way that the Mayor agreed to let them in,” she huffs out, face twisted in a comical grimace. 

Midas raises a brow and leans back a little. Madame Montange is well known for devout piety, even as she uses it to browbeat others less orthodox. She is, after all, one of the main donors of the local Chantry, and enjoys the privileges that buys. It is not uncommon for her to find something distasteful enough to complain about so ferociously. 

On the other hand, he notes as he glances around, usually she’s not accompanied by other grumbling townsfolk. No one is as obvious about their distaste, but there are more than one market go-er frowning at a particular corner of the festival. 

“If they’ve already set up, I can’t see how the Mayor isn’t already aware of them,” he answers, well used to keeping his scepticism out of his voice. 

“Obviously they’ve snuck in! We must inform her at once. Or perhaps she isn’t aware at the extent of the obscenity,” she retorts, tossing her perfectly coiffed head. 

“Obscenity?” he asks, glancing over in the direction of said proclaimed heretics. He wonders what exactly Madame Montange would consider obscene—it’s a very broad term, for a woman who already uses broad terms with liberty. 

He debates for a moment if the group is some sort of burlesque show, but even he doesn’t think the Mayor would let something like that through, or at least, not until dark. 

“They—!” The Madame looks so stricken for a moment she must visibly temper herself, a move that has even Midas, a not easily taken aback fellow, blinking. Montange continues in a much more hushed voice, as if the very words are blasphemous. “They kill a  _ Mother _ in their little  _ show. _ ”

Right then, actually blasphemy. Midas has to still his own sharp intake of breath in reaction, he must carefully maintain his easy middle ground position that keeps the  _ Nous Autres _ and his fellows buying from him. 

Maker’s breath. Perhaps she is making a mountain of a molehill? It would not be uncommon of her. 

“You’re jesting,” Midas says, keeping enough seriousness in his frame to let the woman think he is only half teasing. 

“I do not!” Madame Montange says, looking offended at the very implication. “I would not joke of such— such— I do not even have words for it! We are a decent folk in Murat, keep our faith in the Maker and keep our loyalties with the Empress. I do not see why such…  _ people _ , would think they are welcome here! This is not  _ Rivain. _ ”

Well, that is true. Montange is not a joking, jesting sort. And for more than just her to be in such a tizzy perhaps it really is a mountain. 

“Be it as it may,” Midas says in what he hopes is a placating tone. “Mayor Lavigne would have had to give them a permit to set up for the festival. Whatever their show may have, it seems it may be out of our hands.”

Midas doesn’t feel warm to the idea of a play that so blatantly speaks ill of the Maker’s hands and voices, if he’s honest with himself. Were it not for the Chantry, he would not have been able to make it through the loss of his parents, the last Blight. A dark place that light brought him out of. 

But, Midas knows Mayor Lavigne. She would not allow something unwise to take place in their town of Murat. She has led them through the hard times after the Blight took her father, and the lean years following the increase of bandits and thieves roaming the countryside. She’s kept them mostly hale and hearty now that the sky is falling down. 

“I’m sure Mayor Lavigne would like to hear your concerns,” he says, sure that the Mayor would not. “Perhaps you should go directly to her?” 

“Of course,” Montange huffs, straightening her spine even more than it already was. “She must be informed. I am sure she will choose wisely and have these heathens thrown out.” 

“Of course,” Midas parrots, nodding as she says her goodbyes and strides off in a huff. “Always a pleasure, Madame.” 

There’s a moment of blessed silence before a figure—previously hovering around a stall of honey glazed nuts—siddles over. 

“Ah, can I interest you in my fine wares, friend?” Midas asks, blinking at the strangely masked man. Many Orlesians enjoy a mask or two, of course, and even peasant festivals such as this aren’t spared, but usually they’re  _ more _ decorated. The plain black cloth covering the lower half of the man’s face is an odd choice. 

“Maybe! We need to restock some ingredients for the night,” the man says cheerfully enough, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Do you have cardamom?” 

Midas quickly goes through his list of supplies with the man, well used to hawking his wares to the most reticent of customers. It’s hard at festivals such as this for ingredients to make much of an impact on the crowd, who usually are looking for trinkets or prepared food to spend their coins on. Still, he’s been selling at this corner of the market for almost half a decade at this point, and he has his own share of loyal customers. 

“...I am unfortunately out of ground wheat flour, but I do have this intriguing delicacy that one of my suppliers has left behind. It’s a fine ground flour made from _ le maïs _ , robust in flavour and much stronger than your regular fare,” he finishes, showcasing the bag in question without much hope. He’s had few customers express an interest, and he’s somewhat starting to despair of ever getting rid of the blasted thing. 

“ _ Le maïs _ ,  _ le maïs _ ...my Orlesian isn’t the greatest, but looking at this, it’s made from corn?” the man asks, peering at the bag. “I didn’t know Orlais even had corn flour! Oh man, I could make so many good things with this.” 

“Truly?” Midas asks, blinking. Corn is mostly animal feed, in his experience. Few people would try it unless they’re starving. 

The man shrugs, eyes on the bag and notably not making eye contact. “Biscuits, corn flour butter cake, corn flour bread, cookies, muffins. Good for battered and fried foods as well.”

Midas reevaluates the man before him. 

He’s young, clearly. Middling height, and of what he can see, still has the softness of youth on his frame. An accent almost Ferelden but not. 

“You know much about cooking then!” Midas says amicably. “Did you learn it in a finishing school? Or passed through the family?”

The man before him, grey eyes still taking in his surroundings instead of focusing on Midas, hums. 

“Picked it up here and there. How much for the corn flour,  _ Le maïs _ , rather, and may I please see what else you have in stock?” 

Midas takes the surprising sale in stride, and at this point he’s just glad he doesn’t have to keep the  _ Le maïs _ around anymore. 

“Fifteen bits, good customer,” Midas says, holding out the bag. 

The man before him takes the bag, a decently heavy one, with ease, and fishes the bits out of his worn leather coin purse. 

“May I ask your name? I know you’ve come with that acting troupe, I’m simply curious,” Midas asks, taking the coins and setting them in the strongbox behind his stall. 

The man finally looks into Midas’s eyes, if only for a moment, and suddenly Midas realizes the dark cloth mask makes them all the more sharp and striking. 

“ _ L’ours _ is my stage name,” The man,  _ L’ours _ , says simply. 

The bear? Perhaps they have an animal theme. 

“And you handle the food then?” Midas pokes further. 

“I won’t be if I don’t get some more salt and other various seasonings,” L’ours says in deadpan. 

Midas holds his hands up. “ _ Pardon _ ,  _ pardon _ ! I am too curious for my own good, Monsieur L’ours. I will get you your salt and ‘various seasonings’ right this second!”

He does so, packing everything away and accepting the proper coins in return. The rebuff only makes him more curious, not less, but he hasn’t gotten as far as he has by poking his nose where it’s obviously not wanted. He gives the man another wides smile and waves him off with good cheer. 

It’s only once the customer is off again, striding across the market with purpose, does he slump a little onto the stall top. 

Ah, well. He supposes he will know soon enough. Madame Montange will no doubt be yelling all there is to know from the rooftops.

—

Dear Mister Tethras,

I hope this letter finds you well. I know you and our darling  _ Loup  _ are in the midst of some rather heated negotiations, so I won’t take up too much of your time. I’m not trying to get in between two business folk when attempting to hammer out an alliance.    
  
As I’m sure you are aware, the troupe and I travel through large portions of Orlais as we follow the seasons festival circuit and bring a bit of cheer to the more neglected towns on the way. This brings us to more isolated corners of the map then some, and affords us some measure of flexibility. 

It also brings with it a certain degree of danger, these days more so than some. Some of that danger falls directly into the purview of the Inquisition, as they are the sole group able to solve such issues. I’m speaking of rifts, of course. We’ve been lucky enough to walk away from any encounters with the cursed things, but others might not be so blessed. 

I’ve attached a map of the general directions of the ones we’ve seen, as best I can remember. This is information freely shared, for the safety and wellbeing of us all who have to walk under the sundered sky. 

Yours Truly, 

_ Le Corbeau,  _ of  _ Les Étrangers _

—

“So how many does that make now?” Frank asks, glancing nervously behind the caravan towards the fast disappearing dot of the village. 

“Five, I think? Does the town with the weird possessed bees count?” Kaylee replies, looking up from where she’s trying to repair some of the canvas tents. There’s a small smudge of soot on her nose. 

“You would think we’d be used to getting run out of town by now,” Kyla muses, poking her head out of the front compartment. “Also, Jay would like it known that the next time someone gets stabbed, to not have it be in the gut.” 

“I’ll take that under advisement,” Frank replies with a snort. 

“Does he need help?” Kaylee offers, looking hesitant. “I think we’ve still got some elfroot left over.” 

Kyla shakes her head. 

“No, it’s not that deep—you know how fast Max heals anyways.” 

“Hah, our big fuzzy tank,” Frank says, turning back to keeping an eye out. They’ve had townsfolk attempt to ambush them out of the village gates before, and that’s probably the last thing they need right now. 

Kyla retreats back into the cordoned off surgery room and the two others settle in for the ride, an awkward, almost nervous silence falling between them. 

After a bit of time, the waggon slows to a crawl and someone knocks on one of the side beams. They’ve gotten far enough from the town that they should be safe for now, as long as there’s no rifts or bandits nearby. 

“Dad is going scouting,” May says, hurrying over. “And I think maybe to plot someone’s demise? Not sure, they were muttering rather intensely for a second there.” 

“Forget Dad,” Frank snorts, glancing over to the surgery room. “I think Lilith almost let the magic out of the bag when she saw Max. You know how they are.”

“Siblings,” May says, nodding. “Very lucky little sister was prioritizing getting Max away, or we’d have had bigger problems.”

Frank was newer to the group, when they all woke up in the Hinterlands. He didn’t think waking up with half a discord server in Thedas would be on his agenda for the rest of his life, but he knows these people like blood now. 

Lilith, the  _ baby _ , had been the server owner. He found the server through her books. Max is, from what Frank understands, her oldest friend here with them now. Brother from another mother, as May put it. 

He  _ really _ thinks if Max hadn’t have said a sharp “ _ Don’t _ ,” when he went down, they’d have Templars on their asses on top of townsfolk. 

The need to run on top of having one of them injured and the other about to go into a rage really wasn’t helping Frank’s Thursday, he’ll be honest. 

Speaking of, said girl crawls out of the front compartment, a  _ sour _ look on her face. 

“I can hear you,” Lilith says sharply, bloodstained fingers flexing. 

“We know,” Frank says blandly, taking in her state. 

_ Seventeen _ . They all keep forgetting how young she is. Her clothes are disheveled, blood on the parts of her body she used to help carry Max to safety. Probably the most angry he’s seen her, too, muscles coiled tight. 

“Do you need to be alone?” Kaylee asks, warily, gently setting a hand on her shoulder. 

“I  _ need _ —,” Lilith cuts herself off with a shake of her head. “Max is stable. I’m going to get my bow and take the rear.”

“You’re about to come down from that adrenaline,” Jay pipes up, poking his head out of the front sheet. “It won’t be fun.”

“Yeah, well, unfortunately I’m one of the few of us who can use a weapon besides throwing ice at people,” Lilith says sharply, before looking like she immediately regretted the words. “Shit. Sorry, I’m so sorry. I need to be alone for a little bit where I can work through my mess, okay?”

Jay nods, understanding. “Come talk if you need it.”

Frank watches her pluck up her bow and quiver of arrows and swiftly jump from the wagon, headed towards the back wagons. 

Silence settles, again. 

“She’s right,” Kaylee says, fingers shaking as she stabs her needle into the tent. 

“About fighting?” May asks. “We are squishy.”

“We’re nerds taken from our plushy modern life and forced to survive in hell,” Frank says, eyes returning to the road behind them. “We’re doing better than expected.”

“And she had to carry us halfway with Dad that first month,” Kaylee says, looking up sharply. “We need to get better. A group is only as strong as its weakest links.”

“More reason to get closer to the Inquisition—they have people we could learn from. I mean our other option is like, the Chevaliers or Templars, and. No,” May points out, for once looking sober and serious. “And I’m not just saying that because I want to get in Bull’s pants.” 

“We risk a lot getting close to the Inquisition, though,” Kyla responds, lips twisting. 

“Do we? What’s the worst case scenario—they find out we’re from another world and do what about that? I can’t see us being mages being that big of a deal at this point,” Frank says, crossing his arms. 

“The Inquisition might be cool with mages, but  _ ‘group from another world’ _ is probably a little too close to demons and spirits to be that acceptable. And do we really want the egg to be aware of  _ other _ worlds out there?” Jay cuts in, crawling over to the bowl of water they have held in stasis to get the blood off his hands. 

There’s vague noises of agreement from the others. 

“So. Learning to fight—what’s the plan?” Kaylee asks, and there’s a pause as the group looks at each other in thought. 

“You’ve been trying to figure out why we have access to magic, right?” Kyla starts. “Between you and our more combat orientated magic users, we can probably figure out a way to actually use it—I mean, what Dad does doesn’t really count.” 

“Getting Lilith to teach at least someone else the bow might not be bad, but we kinda need something that will work better in towns. Swords or spears or something,” Frank continues. 

“Can we ask the Dalish for pointers? They have hunters and stuff,” May points out. “We’re making enough money at this point we should have something we can trade with them for.” 

“And they know we’re not going to attack them already,” Kaylee says with a sigh. “I don’t know. I just, I don’t want one of us getting hurt like this again, okay?”

“Seconded,” Jay says blandly. “I’m not a doctor.”

Everyone in the wagon collectively gives him a look. Excluding Max, who was probably knocked out for the impromptu surgery. 

“Medical school equals good enough, Jay,” Kyla says, pushing up her glasses. “While we’re all here, someone needs to double check none of the newer hires are too spooked.”

May stretches, standing up from her crouch. “On it, sis. See you all in a bit.”

And with that, she too has hopped from the back of the wagon, hurrying towards the front of the caravan instead of the back. 

Frank runs a hand down his face, tired. 

“You know, despite it all, at least we’re not back in the Hinterlands arguing about turning corpses into soap,” Frank says. 

“No. No corpse soap, Lilith refused to use her skills for evil, Frankie,” Kaylee says, reaching over and whacking him in the head. 

“No waste! They’re dead, they can’t complain,” Jay says, going back to the other side of the curtain, likely to watch Max’s condition. 

Well. They’ve lived this far, despite the stabbings and murders. They’re doing pretty well for a displaced group of Discord friends. Together they all almost make a functional person. 

—

“I do enjoy these little parties of ours,” Dorian says, striding into the room with just enough force to make the ends of his jacket flare out. “But must we do so so early in the morning?” 

Enchanter Vivienne looks up from her gold crusted tea cup—Orlesian aesthetic is so nostalgic at times—and gives him an arch look in return. 

“My dear, if you spent less time drinking yourself under the tables, perhaps you would appreciate the morning sun a little more. I do say your complexion would thank you,” she replies, with the perfect mix of snide worry. More thorns on that woman than on her staff. 

“I see you still haven’t found someone to keep you up at night,” he says with an over exaggerated sigh. “Pity.” 

Obligatory insults given, Dorian settles into his usual seat and eyes the selection of delicacies arranged. Now that they’ve established better trade routes to Skyhold, he’s not finding himself so deprived of adequate foodstuffs, but it is close. Even the expensive, indulgent offerings of Vivienne leave something to be desired. 

All sugar, no spice. 

“Did you see the designs Lady Josephine has drafted for the Winter Palace?” he starts, finally selecting a couple of small cakes. “Truly an eyesore, but I suppose it fits in with the rest of the court.” 

“I believe our ambassador is attempting to emphasise our humble, militaristic origins,” Vivienne replies, with just a touch of doubtful derision in her voice. “It is not a choice I would make, if it were up to me, but we must do what we can with what we are given.” 

“I’m curious to see who Ceecee will bring along,” Dorian muses, biting into something that he thinks is supposed to be a lemon cake. “Not Warden Blackwall, I hope—did you see what Sera tried to do with his beard? Got as far as shaving off one side of his mustache curl before he woke and chased her out, I hear.” 

That brings a hint of a curled lip to the otherwise serene Enchanter’s face. Vivienne and Sera are certainly not the most friendly of acquaintances. 

“It would still be better than bringing the Apostate,” Vivienne sighs. “Despite how fond the Inquisitor seems to be of him, it would give the court the wrong idea completely.” 

Would it? Dorian is pretty sure Ceecee is completely aware of what he’s doing on that front. Recruiting the mages without conscripting them makes it pretty obvious. 

Dorian sets down the most certainly not-lemony-enough-to-be-a-lemon-cake, lemon cake, and hums. 

“Well, the court does so enjoy dramatizing things regardless of who our dear Inquisitor intends on bringing. Even our inoffensive Lady Ambassador is likely to ruffle at least a few feathers before smoothing them,” Dorian says with a small smirk. “Though, considering what I have heard, we may not be the Ball’s greatest attraction.”

Vivienne leans back, just so, head tilting the slightest. A shark smelling blood, so to speak, or juicy new gossip in this case. 

“Oh? Do tell.”

Dorian takes a sip of his tea, savoring not the taste, but his ability to stoke her anticipation. 

“Ceecee has confided in me that a certain controversial theatre troupe may be approached to join the Inquisition at the Winter Palace. A distraction from whatever chaos and murder Ceecee gets involved in,” Dorian says lowly, smiling. 

Vivienne’s head straightens, and she looks very appropriately unhappy with the thought of it. 

“The heretics?  _ Les Étrangers _ , is their name, is it not? Flitting from town to town before they can be prosecuted?” Vivienne says dryly, reaching down and taking what looks like a strawberry shaped cookie to nibble on. “He truly is inept at interacting with the court, then.”

“So  _ sharp _ , my Lady,” Dorian says, delighted. “You do not like them, then?”

“What is there to like? Their hamfisted attempts at critisism? The unrealistic and dangerous depiction of magic? Perhaps the obscene caricature of the Chantry?” She raises one brow in derision. 

“Their intriguing staging, perhaps? The delightful outfits? The mystery of their masks? Perhaps even the music, said to be as shockingling innovative as their story is heretical.”

Vivienne daintily crosses one ankle as she leans back to give him the full strength of her disappointed stare.

“Darling, I know you are easily swayed by a bit of ruffle and lace, but even you must see how dangerous and misguided they are,” She finishes. 

Now, Dorian would feel chastised if he were any other man. 

As is, nothing but his father’s disappointment could sway him now, and he’s already gained that!

“And yet the same could be said of the Inquisition, could it not?” Dorian says, idly. “In fact, I could have sworn that was a direct quote of an Orlaisian Mother shouting at us the last time we wandered through Val Royeaux! How odd.”

Vivienne’s mouth puckers just a bit. 

“The difference is a matter of scale, my dear. The Inquisition is mandated by the previous Divine, and is the only group in a position to do the work that needs done. While sometimes...naive, Cadash has advisors to guide him. A group of peasant heretics have only their own misconceptions to lead them,” she says, leaning forward to pick up her cup again. 

Dorian raises his own in a toast. 

“Because we are so much more sophisticated,” he snipes, with a wry twist to his lips. It might be true for the two of them, but the rest of the Inquisition is, ah, as she said: peasants and heretics. 

“Quite,” Vivienne sniffs, taking a sip of her tea. 

“In other news, have you seen who just arrived begging for aid this morning?” He changes topic, waving a hand. “A certain well known noble who had been making a ruckus not that long ago…”

“Oh? Do tell,” she demures, looking wicked. 

—

  
  


May clambers onto the table with a flourish, letter held loftily in hand. 

“ _ Jesus Christ, _ ” Lilith says, southern drawl poking out like it does sometimes, covering her face in her hands. “Get off the table, May!”

May hushes her, one finger put to her lips while the rest of the group chuckles at her antics. 

“I’m trying to  _ read _ , little sister,” She declares loftily, before clearing her throat and raising the letter. 

She is very drunk. Half the group is very drunk. Others are middling drunk. Lilith, as the designated child of the group, was not allowed to partake, and now stares at the wall in a disapproving haze. 

“ _ To the most Ostentatious Les Étrangers, _

_ I write you this letter extending a business proposition. The Inquisition has been most gratuitously invited to Empress Celene’s Winter Palace Ball, to be held the twelfth of Cassus, two months from now as of my writing this.  _

_ And with that invitation, I, Inquisitor Cadash, thought it prudent to bring entertainment to the court. And what better entertainment than the Les Étrangers theatre troupe?” _

Loud whooping and cheers ring out of the tavern, as the hired hands and the main group all toast, some a little incredulously. A few are even shaking their heads, even as the alcohol muddles some of the apprehension and tension. 

_ “And so, on the gracious authority given to me by the Inquisition, I am cordially inviting Les Étrangers and their members to join us in the festivities, paid for and sponsored by the Inquisition.”  _

The cheers at this point become slightly deafening, and May accepts it as her due, despite really only being the narrator in this debacle. 

“ _ I await your response with baited breath,  _

_ Cadoc Cadash, Lord Inquisitor of the Inquisition, etc”  _

“Etc?” someone mutters to Lilith’s side, only for their neighbour to hush them. 

“They probably don’t even know what titles to give him, considering, you know. Dwarf. Heretical Inquisition.” 

May takes a sloppy bow, almost falling on her face in with the motion, and holds the letter up like it’s a precious artifact. 

“We!” She declares. “Are going to be so rich!” 

“We’re going to get shanked,” Max replies, somewhat dryly, even as he toasts back. 

“You and I, Max, are ditching these idiots if this goes south,” Lilith says without heat, already feeling a headache building. 

Her eyes catch Dad’s, a sense of ‘ _ We’ll address this later _ ’ going through the both of them, and Lilith looks away. 

May clambers back down from the top of the table, latching to the nearest person’s side in thoughtless affection, which Kaylee accepts stiffly. Max pulls the letter from May’s hand and folds it, handing it to Lilith as a drinking song starts up around them. 

Lilith murmurs her thanks, shoving the fine paper into her shirt where it won’t be pickpocketed, and grimacing. 

They hadn’t accounted for this. Hindsight is 2020, and yes, she’s referring to the year. Negative connotation intended. 

“So, what, are we doing this?” Jay asks the air, barely drunk. It’s better to have the medic on hand sober enough to tell if someone’s got alcohol poisoning. 

“We’d be  _ stupid _ not to,” May says with a slurred scoff. “There were a lot of dollar signs on that letter, so to speak.”

“Yeah, but nobles,” Frank says, grimacing. “ _ Orlesian _ , nobles.”

A collective groan rises among the main troupe, joined by some of the more used to their antics stagehands. 

“ _ We’re going to get shanked, _ ” Max repeats, falling on deaf ears. 

“An in with an organization like the Inquisition could be beneficial,” Dad says idly, downing some of their own tankard in one go. “Wariness would be smart, though.”

“When  _ aren’t _ we wary?” Kyla says with a huff, almost running her hand down her face tiredly and then jumping when she remembers she has her glasses on. Best not smudge those. 

Lilith misses her own glasses. She hadn’t been wearing them when they all woke up here. She’s lucky her eyesight is mostly fine without them, but distances are just blurry enough to annoy. 

At least they all have their phones, and  _ two _ solar chargers. They’re equally lucky and unlucky, this letter just proves it. 

“Point, Ky, point,” Jay says, reaching up to fiddle with the top of his black mask, an idle practiced motion. “I don’t care whether we go for this or not, I’m not the one who has to entertain nobility. More money to create long term reforms would always be appreciated, though.”

“Wait. Does that mean we’re going to be debuting the new show at the Winter Palace?” Frank asks, moving closer from where he was watching some of the stagehands play cards. 

“The new show we haven’t decided on?” Max asks, shaking his head a little with a laugh. “The one we keep having arguments about?” 

“Debates, Max, debates,” Jay returns, leaning back to try and catch a glance at where May is getting pulled into a dance with someone. After making sure she doesn’t look like she’s not completely hammered, he leans forward again. 

“If we’re going to be debuting it at the Winter Palace that’s going to trim down our options at least,” Lilith points out. “We’ll want something with class commentary, and maybe with more music instead of dialogue.” 

“We finally have some decent instruments and players,” Kaylee replies, starting to look excited. 

  
“We’ll figure it out,” Dad replies, stretching their neck out, the  _ ‘or else’ _ left unsaid.    
  


A cheer breaks out from one corner of the room, interrupting the group and causing Dad to sigh, before passing off their tankard to Jay. The rest of them share glances as they then right a fallen chair and step on it, to take up the same spot that May had made her earlier recitement from. 

The room hushes slightly as people notice—a rare thing for those who know  _ Le Corbeau _ —faces turning expectantly up once more.

“What are they doing?” Frank whispers, only for Lilith to shake her head and gesture silently to the previous loud group, where a lone figure is half turned towards them. 

“I’m not sure—but that’s not one of ours,” she points out.

“Friends!” Dad, starts. “And family,—” this with a nod to the group. “We’ve come a long way from makeshift puppet shows and pauper’s music making. We’ve dealt with opposition and derision from peers and nobles alike. And yet we have thrived.” 

There’s a mix of cheers and boos at that, to which Dad bows with an ostentatious twirl.

As they straighten back up, they make eye contact with Lilith and incline their head a bit. 

“We have been given a chance of a lifetime…”

Lilith straightens further and nods, glancing over at the stranger in the corner. There’s too many witnesses here, of course, but if they can lure them out of the tavern while Dad is keeping everyone occupied…

Lilith slinks away from the table, steps silent and mana gliding over her body in the thin layer. An illusion, bastardized  _ notice-me-not _ akin to Harry Potter. She enters the throngs of people dancing in the center of the room, tugging off her black mask and tucking it away in one of her pants pockets. 

She takes a breath, calm settling over her body like it always does before a performance. The tiny, precise spell falls away from her as she skips over to the stranger and out of the crowd, her small frown replaced with a grin and her body swaying to mimic the more tipsy of the tavern’s patrons. 

Dad’s voice still carries over her head, but she’s not focused on the words now. 

The stranger is dark haired, elven, and she expects the lack of Vallaslin. Masculine, so she tentatively calls him a man in her head. 

Her hand gently pokes his shoulder, the move televised and sloppy. 

He turns, and she  _ watches _ the wariness in him fade at the sight of her. 

Oh ho ho. Mistake number one!

“I’m so sorry,” She says with a laugh, hand coming up to half cover her mouth. “You looked like my friend! He runs with the troupe I’m in, you see.”

The man’s eyes don’t narrow, that’d be sloppy, but he smiles in a way that doesn’t reach them. 

“Is he now? I’m sure I’d be better company!” The man says, to the quiet laughter of his friends. 

Lilith hums, playfully clasping her hands behind her back. “Is that so?”

She walks out of the tavern half leaning on him, blabbering about some bullshit she’s making up on the spot about Dad. He doesn’t see the little hand sign Lilith makes behind her back as she goes, and he doesn’t see Max and Kaylee stand from their seats to follow. 

Who oh who, does this one belong to?

—

They leave town the next day, as they had already planned, except this time instead of heading west they turn their wagons in the direction of the capital. It will take some time to get there, and they’ll be able to stop in the towns along the way to make a few more shows and stock up on what they’ll need for the Winter Palace.    
  
“We should figure out outfits soon,” May points out. “Our regular stuff won’t cut it.” 

“We’ll have some leeway, because they won’t be expecting much from us peasants,” Kaylee replies, dodging around one of the horses so that she can keep pace with the wagon.    
  
Esmé looks up from where she is currently fixing a crack in one of the stage masks. She had meant to leave the group’s company at some point a couple towns ago, but ever since learning of their magic, she’s been too invested to go. The glimpses she is now afforded of their lives outside of the theater are mysteries she has a hard time letting go of.    
  
“Have we decided on a story?” she asks, only for the group to shrug.    
  
“Lilith and Dad are sequestered away writing, and we have a couple ideas—”   
  
“—Les Mis would be perfect I don’t know why—”   
  
“— _ as I was saying.  _ We have a couple options, but nothing has been fully decided yet. The format of the Winter Palace is tricky, too. People aren’t likely to be sticking around for a whole play, not when there is dancing and networking to be done.” 

Esmé nods. It seems reasonable, even if she knows nothing of the machinations of nobility, other than the basics. Most of those basics being keep as far a distance from the especially rich, like entitled humans with Chevaliers at their backs, as you can. 

“Interactive show?” May asks the air, tapping her chin with a knitting needle before returning to creating a strange green hat with floppy ears. 

Kaylee makes a face. “Do  _ you _ want to play interactive set piece to the rich?”

“Depends on tips,” May shoots back cheekily, to the eye roll of her fellow actor. 

“How long do you think it will take them?” Esmé asks, dark eyes going from May to Kaylee. She learned weeks ago that in order to get a voice in this group of easy, fast banter she needed to butt in to be heard. In fact, it’s become such a habit that when she interacts with new stagehands she catches herself showing such a strange sense of easy confidence. 

That is another point to the idea that  _ joining _ theatre makes you start queer behavior, not theatre attracting queer folk. 

...or perhaps she was always this way, and these people have drawn it out of her. Scary thoughts for a cool, sunny afternoon. 

May laughs at the question. It isn’t comforting. 

“Those two have been writing since forever. Give them a few days to figure out what they want and the script will follow. If one of them looks grumpy when they come out of their hole just avoid them for now,” May explains with a wave of her needle, Kaylee nodding. 

“Speaking of writing, I need to get some of my new musicians practicing with our fiddles, I am  _ not _ going to survive another long off key note like the last town,” Kaylee says, the visible upper half of her face screwing up in mortification. “Though it’s not their fault that we, again, don’t have access to the best of instruments.”

“We also need to figure out what we’ll be selling food wise. Most of the gathering is going to be catered, so I’m thinking kettle popcorn,” Max pipes up, slowing down to fall into pace with them. It looked like he had previously been talking to one of the kitchen staff.    
  
“Ohhh. Popcorn,” May says, looking off into the distance with an expression of longing.    
  
“Popcorn?” Esmé asks, looking between them.    
  
“Popcorn, or maybe roasted nuts? It will need to be something without much mess, considering all the fancy outfits,” he continues, not seeming to notice her question.    
  
“Have we figured out how to make licorice?” Kaylee asks, also starting to look fuzzy with longing. 

“Are we talking  _ snacks _ ?” A voice yells out from across the caravan, as Jay pops up with an excited gleam from a good wagon or two away. “Because we still haven’t figured out soda.” 

“We are not blowing our budget trying to reverse engineer Baja Blast,” Kyla yells back, from the opposite side of the caravan. 

“Did someone say offbrand Mountain Dew?!” Is shouted from that same direction, distinctly Lilith’s voice. 

“It’s not offbrand! It’s literally Mountain Dew!” Jay shouts back, offended sounding.

“ **Stop shouting!** ” Cries Dad’s voice, pissed, and thus the shouting ends. 

Esmé blinks, slowly. 

“Should I ask?” She says to the air, idly. She’s curious, but the answers are always more confusing or cryptic. 

“Fizzy drink that tastes like lemons,” Max says, not looking at her, though he never seems to make eye contact with anyone. “We aren’t getting our advance payment until we reach the Capital, so a bulk of our new supplies, especially ingredients, will need to be gotten then. I suggest making a list and handing it to Lilith and Dad when they’re not sporting headaches.”

“Meeting when we stop for dinner?” Kaylee offers. “We need to do a survey of our crews to see what their needs are as well.”

It’s in these moments that, though Esmé has grown close to the main Les Étrangers, she remembers she is still very much not one of them, and usually is not involved or included in their planning or schemes. Which is fine by her! She is paid well enough and gets to  _ listen in _ on these schemes, that is all she needs. 

...Her Mamae would be disappointed in her for traveling across the country just because she is entertained by a group of Humans. It is lucky that her Mamae did not realize what Ésme was getting into when she auditioned for that first show, or every letter Ésme gets from her, as sparing as they are, would be scathing and worried. 

Ésme looks back down at the cracked mask in hand, Vallaslin stark green against the pale, cold clay. 

...There is a metaphor in it somewhere, she is certain. But for now she paints a final layer of glue over the crack, closes the tin of glue, pockets her brush, and takes a full breath of the Autumn air. 

No matter how this ends, in the very least she is certain it will be interesting. 

It’s then that May and Kaylee begin to argue about a book(?) Ésme has never heard of, and the world settles into this new familiarity again. Leave it to these Étrangers to ruin a profound moment. 

...The thought is fond. No matter her harsh words. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wooh! I’m glad that’s done! It took a bit, but 10k words does take a while to burst through, even with two people evenly sharing the work! 
> 
> I hope you liked it! Please tell us how it made you feel! 
> 
> -TheOneKrafter


End file.
